


Running With The Devil

by Bennyhatter



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, Bottom Daryl, Boys In Love, Dale Horvath is a good friend, Daryl trains horses, F/M, Falling In Love, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Gentle Sex, Gift!Fic, Guys let's not kid ourselves, Hey Look Sex, Horses, M/M, Making Love, Rick retires after being shot, Rickyl Writers' Group, Slow Burn, This fic has become my life, This is a lot of sap and sweetness, Top Rick, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Until it gets resolved at least, romantic, romantic sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-08-13 03:22:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 173,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7960498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bennyhatter/pseuds/Bennyhatter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick retired after getting shot, and found a new passion in the horse industry. When he ends up with a filly that's got more attitude than he knows what to do with, he's desperate for help with training her. She's got the potential to be a great racehorse, she just needs a guiding hand to get there. </p><p>One day, a quiet man with the patience of a saint and the passion to match it turns up on Rick's doorstep, and his world opens in a way he'd never imagined it could - all because of one horse with the blood of a Devil in her, and the drive to do what no filly has ever done before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Riastarstruck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riastarstruck/gifts).



> Let me just start by saying, I HAVE NOT ABANDONED YOU GUYS. I haven't, I swear. Between moving, becoming full-time, raising a pup, and _this_ , my life has become quite interesting and hectic. I haven't abandoned any of my other wips, I promise you guys. It's just that this fic has taken over my entire existence, and it's become more than I ever thought it would.
> 
> This has been beta'd by the amazingly wonderful katytheinspiredworkaholic, who has fixed my mistakes and flailed with me over many parts of this. I have ten chapters written so far, and I'm planning on posting every Monday. I just got excited and decided to start a day early, because hey, it's almost Labor Day, and y'all deserve a treat.
> 
> Thanks a million times to everyone over at Ricker Writers' Group, for encouraging me through this and being generally fucking amazing, every goddamn one of you. And thank you especially to riastarstruck, who prompted the original bunny that this fic grew from. I hope you love it, mine poptart. This is all for you. <3
> 
> Happy Labor Day, guys - have some (seriously slow burn) gay love.

The man standing across the desk from him looks like he's from the wrong side of the tracks. His clothes are dusty and filthy, the rolled-up cuffs of his jeans crusted with dried mud. It smears up his long legs in patches that crack and flake off every time he shifts. Rick eyes his threadbare plaid shirt with the stained sleeves, rolled up to expose strong forearms; they're tight with corded muscle and dusted with a smattering of fair-looking hair. He sees the wide base of the hands shoved deeply into worn pockets, and the curl of the man's massive shoulders, like he's trying to make himself smaller to fit into the open space of Rick's office.

He's tanned and lean, his narrow, sharp eyes hidden behind the wild tumble of his dark bangs and the wide brim of his Stetson hat. Rick doesn't even know what color they are, because since this rough-and-tumble stranger stepped into the room and asked in a low, gruff voice if he was the guy lookin' for a horse trainer, he hasn't once fully looked at his potential employer.

Rick leans back in his chair, the old wood creaking with the movement, and crosses his arms loosely over his chest. He takes in the clenched jaw and thin, chapped lips; the neatly-kept moustache and the beard that is given no chance to creep away from his chin, and he frowns.

After fifteen years with the Atlanta police, catching men and hauling them in, he recognizes the type. There's a vague air of familiarity that hangs around the silent man, even if Rick knows for a fact that he's never seen him before. He's brought in plenty of men with the same wildness contained inside of them that he senses now - brewing anger and slurred words that always dissolved into rough brawls and damaged property. There's something different here, though; a brand of wilderness he's not yet experienced in another person. He's not sure how to take it, and it makes him press a little harder than he normally would, waiting with anticipation for the snap of teeth from a beaten, defensive stray.

"Do you have any experience?"

One broad shoulder rolls smoothly. The man shifts a little and pulls his hands from his pockets. One settles on his hip, fingers hooking in tattered belt loops, while the other tucks against his chest. His fingers curl, thumb to the side, and Rick wonders if he's trying to keep himself from chewing it. He sees the damaged, calloused cuticles for what they are; he's always been able to spot a habit from a mile away.

The man's knuckles are rough and scarred. He recognizes the sign of a brawler, someone who talks with their fists faster than their words, but those marks are old. They're overlaid by longer, thinner scars, those still bright and pale enough to hint at their newness against the older, faded damages. The marks are familiar too now, because Rick has plenty of his own from twine burns and rope dragging harshly over his knuckles, back when he was first starting out with the horses and didn't know better.

"Li'l bit," the man finally replies. His voice is low and rough, probably from the cigarettes Rick can see peeking from the mouth of his breast pocket. He can't be older than twenty five, but he's so quiet and wary, eyeing Rick and trying not to make it seem obvious. He's sizing the rancher up, observing him the way he knows he's being observed - both of them circling like dogs trying to establish the pecking order.

"How long is a 'little bit?'" Rick rocks forward in his seat and rises to his full height. It doesn't escape his notice, the way the younger man leans back on his heels. His shoulders twitch reflexively, Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows thickly, and Rick finds himself crooning quietly in the back of his throat like he's dealing with a spooked colt.

"Couple'a months with Horvath," is the answer he's given, the words thick and tight like they're fighting every step of the way to be spoken. Rick's eyebrows jump up in surprise, because he's well aware of who Horvath is.

Dale Horvath has been in the racing business for over forty years. The best Thoroughbreds on the track right now come from his stables. He helped Rick when he was getting established, giving him advice and mentoring him on the best ways to get his name into the right ears. Rick’s ranch isn't a racing line, not yet, but his horses are strong and sturdy, and his bloodlines are making good waves in some circles. The potential is there for some of them, if they get the training.

"He let you go?" If Dale sent this man on his way, Rick's not so sure he wants him around his own horses. Dale has always seemed like an exceptional judge of character, and if he chases someone from his barn, it's definitely for a good reason.

"Told me ta come here, actually." The man shifts like he's uncomfortable, his thumb hovering in front of his mouth uncertainly before he drops it and shoves his fist back into his pocket. He licks his thin lips quickly and tilts his head just enough for Rick to see his first sliver of pale blue watching him like a mutt waiting for a boot to land in his ribs. "Told me ya might need more help than he did."

That certainly sounds like something Dale would say, and it makes Rick burn with curiosity. He's relatively new to this game, still learning the best way to train and break his beasts, and if this man has something that might help him, if _Dale_ sees something in him he trusts enough to send Rick's way, then he's interested enough to want to see it first hand.

"C'mon," he decides, coming around the side of his desk and walking past the man toward the door. He doesn't miss the flinch, or the muted scrape of heavy soles against the hardwood floor, but he pretends he didn't notice as he leads the way out of the office and through the mudroom. The screen door creaks loudly when he pushes it open - slams shut behind them in a way that echoes and brings a dust-covered blue heeler trotting lazily from the direction of the barn.

"That's Buck." He nods to the dog, whose tail is wagging slowly as he comes closer and gets his first look at the man just off to the left behind Rick. Something in the air changes, the heeler's lope gaining speed until he's barreling towards them and huffing happily.

"Heya, Buck. Handsome guy, ain't ya?"

Rick watches the tension bleed from his guest as he hunkers down to give the excited cattle dog access to his face. Buck is whining and wriggling like a puppy, his tail beating hard against the gravel driveway and one spotted leg curled up against his chest as he licks the man's face with fast, broad laps of his tongue.

"He likes you," Rick chuckles, and he mentally marks a point in the rough man's favor. Buck is a typical heeler, and he sometimes needs a little while to warm up to newcomers. This love at first sight infatuation is uncommon for him, but good for the young man currently running his fingers down the heeler's dark blue spotted coat and messing with his pointed ears while Buck pants happily and drops to roll and offer his belly.

"Got a way with critters," the man explains quietly. His voice is lighter, almost happier, and he gives the dog several generous scratches before standing and meeting Rick's curious stare from the corner of his eyes. "Always have." He sounds embarrassed again, his shoulders tight and his lower lip caught in surprisingly white teeth.

"Let's hope that works in your favor in a moment. Got a filly I want you to meet."

"Oh?" There's no mistaking the way the man lights up at those words, his long, stiff stride relaxing into an easy lope that almost reminds Rick of Buck. They cut across the driveway, heading for Rick's massive stone-and-wood barn while Buck runs on ahead of them. Several horses whinny loudly, hearing their approach, and Rick smiles as he breathes in deeply to catch the mixture of grass, sweet feed, hay, and _horse_. It's always been one of his favorite combinations, even before he retired from the force, and he doesn't miss the way the other man copies him - breathing in deeply and smiling. It's barely there, more a hint of his lips twitching, but it makes him seem lighter already.

Grimes Ranch is far enough outside of King County to be considered very rural. He'd gotten lucky when he found this plot of land. The barn and house were already standing, the pastures established - the place was just run down and in need of repair. A large portion of the settlement money he'd acquired after his ordeal had gone into buying the thirty-acre chunk of heaven, and repairing the damages brought about by neglect and abandonment.

The barn has seventeen large stalls, a wash area, and a massive tack and feed room. Rick is proud of his home and the obvious care he puts into his horses. They want for nothing, he spoils them shamelessly, and in return they handle beautifully for him.

Well, _most_ of them.

"What's your name, by the way?" Now that he thinks about it, Rick realizes that he'd never asked when the man came into his office. That was an oversight on his part, but he supposes that late is better than never.

The younger man looks at him quickly, his eyes narrowed in confusion before he ducks his head and shifts his shoulders back. He looks uncomfortable every time he's asked something that requires an actual, verbal answer, and Rick wonders what this man at his side has been through that could make him so painfully awkward and withdrawn around anything that isn't four-legged and furry.

Considering that he was a cop, Rick thinks he might have an idea, and he doesn't like it.

"Daryl," he hears, the name so soft Rick almost doesn't catch it. He swallows thickly, his jaw clenching, and adds even more softly, "Dixon."

"Daryl, huh?" It suits him. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Daryl. C'mon, this way."

Daryl hesitates at the forebay, looking between Rick and the open doors of the barn with confusion. "We ain't goin' inside?" The horses whinny louder as if in agreement, and a flicker of a fond smile touches across the man's thin lips again when he looks toward the first few stalls where Rick can just see the hints of velvet noses trying to push between the dark metal bars on the doors.

"Soon enough, I reckon. For now, the lady you're gonna meet first is in the main round pen. She's this way."

Buck stretches out in the entryway, watching them go with dark, bright eyes, and Rick chuckles when he gathers that even the heeler wants to steer clear of the unholy beast Daryl is about to say hello to.

"Before I throw you to the wolves, let me give you a bit of backstory on this filly." Rick slows as they follow the thick, square, cherry-wood columns holding up the roof of the forebay. Daryl slows to match him, keeping just a step behind and off Rick's shoulder like he's afraid of what will happen if they walk side by side.

"That sounds pretty ominous," Daryl snorts, and Rick laughs. His apprehension must be stronger than he was hoping, because those pale blue eyes sharpen and flick to his face, narrowed and assessing. "She got an attitude problem?"

"Oh yeah." Running a hand through his sweaty curls, Rick cups the back of his neck and takes a deep breath. "You heard of Devil On Earth?"

"Shit, yeah. _Everyone's_ heard'a him. Meanest fuckin' Thoroughbred on the track in his day, but _damn_ could he fly. Shame, what happened ta him." Daryl's eyes dart to the corner of the barn, and Rick hears the shrill scream of his current 'problem child' when she finally realizes they're coming to see her. "Blood relation, I gather?"

"His first filly," Rick agrees. "Born here. Her dam's my sweetest mare, believe it or not. Looks like she inherited her sire's temper though, along with everything else."

Daryl sucks on his teeth for a moment, looking thoughtful. "Her momma a racer?"

"Small time winner, but nothin' real fancy. Her filly has a lot of potential to be great, just like Devil, but I ain't had a single person but me able to lay hands on her since she was about six months old. Even I gotta be careful. Lose focus for a second, or underestimate her, she knows it, and you're bleedin'."

"Why keep her?"

Rick watches as Daryl shrugs out of his plaid overshirt and drops it beside a column carelessly. The shirt beneath is light grey and sleeveless, and just as dusty as the rest of him. Rick honestly wonders for a moment if the man rolls in the dirt like a horse, or if he just spends every second of his day with them.

"She's got too much damn potential. Let her out in the paddock and she _flies_. It's like she doesn't even touch the ground."

"Sounds like Devil," the younger man nods. He pulls off his Stetson and lays it on top of his discarded shirt. It's the first time Rick has gotten to see his dark head of hair. It's shorter than he was expecting, just past his nape, and his bangs and the sides are long enough to cover his eyes and trail past his jaws. It's flattened by sweat and the hat, so his ears stick out slightly, and Rick is struck by the odd cuteness of it.

Without the hat guarding him, Daryl looks even younger than he had when he'd first stepped into Rick's office. He watches a broad, long-fingered hand rake the dark brown bangs back from squinting eyes and waits for the man to make his decision.

"She got a name?"

Rick nods. "Streak, usually. If I ever get her on a track, she'll be Devil's Pride. Just too much like her daddy, honestly. Figured nothin' else fit."

"Momma's name?"

"Mind Your Business."

Daryl makes a soft, huffed sound at that, and it takes Rick a moment to realize he's trying not to laugh. It makes him smile, and he shrugs unashamedly.

"She was one of Dale's favorite mares," Rick explains. "He gave her to me already bred, as a bit of a good luck symbol. You should have seen his face the first time he saw Streak."

"I bet." Rolling his neck, Daryl looks up like he's checking the placement of the sun before his eyes focus back on Rick again and he nods shortly. "A'right then, let's see th' little lady."

"Yeah, not so little." Shaking his head, Rick finally leads Daryl around the edge of the barn, laughing when a piercing whinny cuts through the air and hits his eardrums with the force of a freight train. Several of the horses in the barn, including Business, whinny back, and Streak screams again before rearing and pawing at the air with hooves the size of dinner plates.

"Jesus fuckin' _shit_ ," Daryl curses beside him, and Rick honestly can't blame him for his surprise. It's understandable. "That's a _big_ goddamn filly."

He's not wrong. Devil On Earth was easily 18 hands high, and Mind Your Business is an easy 17.2 hands. Both horses are large and built well, and their balance and soundness carried on to their filly.

Streak is enormous - already 16 hands with plenty of growing left to do - and black as coal just like her sire. There isn't a hint of white anywhere but her eyes, which are wide and rolling as she crashes back down to the dirt hard enough to make the ground tremble and kicks out with her hind hooves. The crack when she nails the reinforced wooden fence echoes in the sudden silence that has fallen over this corner of the ranch.

It's broken suddenly enough that Rick jumps in surprise when Daryl whistles beside him. "Oh yeah," the man huffs, his eyes following every rear and buck as Streak canters around the perimeter of the pen and screams again. "She's _all_ Devil."

"You see my problem," Rick mutters helplessly, gesturing toward the wild creature tossing her head. It makes her long mane whip like inky tendrils that cut through the bright daylight, and leaves a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Her tail swishes in fast, angry flicks, and as they watch she bites hard enough on one of the thick wooden posts for it to creak and splinter beneath the strength of her teeth.

"Nah, this ain't a problem," Daryl murmurs. "Just bad attitude an' bad trainin'. Or, I guess in her case, no trainin'. Attitude's a good thing. Fillies're bitches. On the track, they gotta be ta be worth a damn against them colts. Combine that with her speed, if she's got it like ya say, an’ ya got yourself a champion."

He starts walking toward the pen, and Rick reaches out quickly to catch his shoulder and stop him. "You sure you know what you're doin'?" he asks warily. "I'm lookin' for a trainer, not a funeral."

Daryl's muscles are tense and coiled beneath his palm, his aborted twitch speaking too much about what kind of contact he expects from anyone who moves too fast around him. Rick watches his eyes narrow through the curtain of his hair; sees him chew his lip briefly, and stares when he finally nods and those pale eyes meet his own darker blue gaze.

"I know the risks. M'fine. Mind gettin' me a bunch'a treats, though? Only brought a handful, an' I'm thinkin' it'll take a helluva lot more'n what I got for this."

"Sure thing." Thankfully they're close enough to the tack room for Rick to hurry there, grab an unopened bag, and hurry back out quickly. He feels bad when his other charges all nicker and whinny eagerly, excited at the thought of pre-dinner snacks, and he whispers apologies to them as he hurries back out into the sun. Buck trots at his heels, curious and loyal, but he stops again several feet shy of the corner of the barn and leaves Rick to make the rest of the returning trip alone.

He rounds the corner with his breath held, moderately worried about what he may or may not find. He hasn't heard the sounds of violence in the short run to the tack room and back, but with Streak, that could mean anything. Rick loves her, and she's less wild for him, but even he has to watch himself around her. She's wickedly intelligent, and _strong_. Only a fool would be stupid enough to underestimate that kind of combination.

Daryl is walking around the twenty-foot round pen, his eyes roving over every inch of it while Streak snorts and charges the fence intermittently. For his part, the young man shows no reaction to her aggression. He seems completely focused on checking the sturdiness of the pen, as if it's more of a concern to him than the twelve hundred pounds of Thoroughbred trying to snake her massive head over the edge and snap at any part of him she can reach.

Rick must make a sound, because the filly whirls around and trots quickly toward his side; skidding to a stop just before she hits the fence and snorting angrily at him. He makes a soothing noise low in his throat, something deep and low like a warbling croon, and beneath the proud arch of her throat he sees Daryl place two treats on top of the closest post before stepping back and continuing his slow circling.

Streak blows a hot breath of air directly in Rick's face before turning her attention back to the new man ignoring her attempts at evoking terror in the hearts of any who wander too deep into her domain. Rick watches with growing curiosity as she prances sideways, her hindquarters swinging like she's going to kick, and then stops. Her ears swivel forward, high and alert, and he realizes that she's spotted the treats. Daryl is already coming around to Rick's side, his hands in his pockets and his pale eyes turned upward toward the sky.

"Strong fence," he comments as he slows down even further. He's not looking straight at Streak, who has swung her head around to them before looking at the treats again, but Rick can _tell_ that Daryl is still watching her. "Guess it'd have ta be, with how much she kicks."

"She broke a few before I got the hint," Rick agrees a little sheepishly. It had taken three trips to the lumber yard for him to get smart about it, and he often wonders if his wayward, temperamental filly _likes_ kicking fences that won't break very easily. She seems to thrive on the challenge they present.

"Hnn."

They watch together as Streak stretches out her long neck and sniffs at the treats, and Rick finds himself holding his breath again. She lips at the edge of the post, her nose wrinkling, and then she snatches them with the speed of a striking cobra.

"Good, she likes apple flavor," Daryl mutters so quietly that Rick isn't sure he was meant to have heard. While the horse is distracted by her treats, the young man quickly puts two more on the post closest to them and starts walking again. The flash at the edge of her vision alerts Streak, and she spins to face them while kicking up a cloud of dust that settles against her black legs and blankets her sides. She looks like she's about to charge again, but when she catches sight of the treats near where Rick is standing, he sees her visibly pause. Her ears come forward again, her dark eyes bright and moving between his face and the treats.

"Hey, pretty girl," he croons in order to distract her. "Got somethin' yummy here for you. Wanna come and try it out?"

Daryl is waiting when Rick glances to see where he is, their eyes meeting briefly. The man isn't closed off anymore, not like he was. His pale eyes are wide open now, catching the sun, and there's a relaxed look about him that wasn't present before. It's as if being by Streak, leaving little treats to tempt her, has brought something in him to life that Rick doubts many know is there.

Streak approaches Rick slowly and wickers at him before snatching the newest treats. He listens to her crunch through them, watching as Daryl leaves treats on one post, and then another. There doesn't seem to be any order to how's he's doing it, not that Rick can discern. He wonders what the man is trying to accomplish, because treats are nice, yes, but it'll take more than a handful of snacks to bring Streak around. He's tried that before.

By the time Daryl is standing by his side again, the filly has found the next two offerings and is actively searching for more. Rick is frowning, trying to puzzle out this unusual game. When Daryl speaks, the words are so quiet that he almost doesn't catch them at first.

"Why ain't you tried gettin' trainers before now?"

Rick snorts. "I've been tryin' since that filly was born to get someone to stay. I handle most of them myself, and I don't have any foals being born yet, so it wasn't a big issue for me. Three guys have tried to break her for the track so far, and she's taken a piece from every single one of them in some way. Dale said he'd keep an eye out for someone who could handle this much horse, but I'd started to think he was just bein' polite. It's been almost nine months since someone has applied for the job. I have regular grooms and extra hands, but no one has been brave enough, or foolish enough, to tackle her issues since the last man walked out of this pen missin' a chunk from his arm."

For only being two years old, she's already proven to be a formidable force. Rick loves her dearly though, and he's not afraid to admit that he needs help. He's not giving up on her, not until he knows he has no other choice. Maybe not even then.

"How'd he manage that?" Daryl puts the last treat on the post in front of them before stepping back to stand beside Rick again. He glances at the bag between Rick's boots, but doesn't reach for it yet.

"He thought a lunge whip would curb her behavior," Rick replies with a growl. He doesn't like the more heavy-handed methods of breaking horses to train them. Some men and women are more violent and short-tempered than others, and the man who'd tried to use a whip on Streak had been a man like that. Rick hadn't been sad to see him go, although he'd felt bad about the piece of him Streak had taken, even if it was his own arrogance that had gotten him hurt.

"No wonder she hates everyone," the man beside him hisses angrily. "Trainin' through pain ain't _trainin_ '. S'just fear an' Alpha-dog bullshit. Shit, I'd'a taken a chunk too. I'd'a tried ta take his whole damn _head_."

"She may have tried that too," Rick admits. Pride flashes across Daryl's face, and Rick watches the man while he's involved in watching Streak.

His features are almost androgynous, settling somewhere between masculine and delicate. It's a strange combination, not your typical form of aesthetically pleasing, but he's definitely _pretty_ in an unusual way. There's a beauty mark just off to the left side of his upper lip that Rick hadn't noticed before. His mouth is small, his lips thin; his jaw stubborn and his nose rounded. He's got ridiculously broad shoulders, and the bagginess of his shirt where it hangs around his waist makes Rick think he's got narrow hips.

There's a hardness to Daryl, something hinted at in the way he stands with his feet spread shoulder-width apart and braced. His scarred knuckles point toward him having been a fighter of some sort, but the thick air of wariness that cloaks him makes Rick think more of a beaten dog than a rabid wolf. The possibility of a violent nature is definitely _there_ , but it's not senseless cruelty. It's something else, something based firmly in a harshness that rings like _survival_. Rick has seen plenty of cornered, cowering dogs snarl and snap at the brutal hands reaching for them, and in Daryl he sees the same drive to keep himself ready at all moments, just in case the need to run arises.

Realizing that he's been staring too long and _analyzing_ the man beside him, just like he used to do to victims and suspects while he was with the force, Rick looks away and refocuses on Streak as she turns toward them and sees the final treat waiting two feet from where they're waiting.

"Showtime," Daryl whispers. Rick slips his thumbs into his belt loops and settles into a more comfortable position, resting most of his weight on his right leg to give his left side a reprieve. The bullet scar on his side is beginning to ache in a way that is still frustrating even almost six years after the injury that forced him into retirement, and ultimately opened up the world around him in a whole new way.

He doesn't actively talk about the call that ended with him in a coma and his estranged wife in the arms of his best friend, but Rick has never once ignored it, either. The whole situation was a mess, and the long months of recovery were agonizing. They had left him torn between wanting to cry and wanting to destroy _everything_ as he worked to get his strength back.

Horses were his saving grace during those dark days. Once he'd been coaxed into handing in his badge and gun, the settlement money swelling his bank account into numbers he'd never _dreamed_ of possessing, he'd decided that raising and racing horses was where he wanted to spend the rest of his days. It hasn't been _easy_ , but it's been more than satisfying for him. As he watches Streak approach them, her velvet-soft nostrils flaring and her eyes calculating, he finds himself smiling.

"There ya are, pretty beast," Daryl croons beside him. His voice dips into a low rumble, shivering across Rick's skin in a way he's determinedly not thinking about. "C'mon, little devil. Come an' get it. S'all for you, sweetheart."

Streak wickers softly, her head dipping slightly before she jerks it back up and dances in place. She wants the treat badly, Rick can see it in the way she stretches her neck out before pulling back, but she won't cross that last bit of distance and _take_ it.

"Should we move back?" he asks Daryl out the side of his mouth. He's not quite looking at the other man, but he catches the movement when he shakes his head.

"Not yet. Want her ta know she ain't got nothin' ta be afraid of. Gain her trust, gain her friendship. Got that, ya got yerself a horse ya can train. Don' need no crops or fuckin' _whips_. Don' need violence, not fer this. This is a partnership, an _equal_ one. She's gotta trust ya not ta kick 'fore ya can trust her not ta bite. Trust works both ways, after all."

No one has ever said it to him quite like that before. Dale is the most peaceful man he knows, and he dotes on his horses even more than Rick does, so for him to have found someone with a mentality like Daryl's isn't that surprising. To have sent him to _Rick_ rather than hiring him on as one of his own trainers is what's stupefying, but he's not concerned that there's foul play going on. Dale isn't that kind of man.

Watching Streak take a hesitant step forward, and then another, he bites his lip hard and watches with intense focus until the gentle nudge of Daryl's elbow into his ribs breaks his concentration. He glances over and sees pale, narrow eyes fixed on him.

"Yer makin' her nervous, starin' like that. Watch her, but don' _look_ at her. Look from th' side, an' keep relaxed. She's gotta know it's okay, or she ain't comin' nowhere near us."

Following the younger man's prompting, he looks off toward the barn and catches sight of Buck when the heeler peers around the corner to check on them. He's probably making sure neither of them are dead, and when he finds that both men are, in fact, alive and well, he lays on the grass beside the forebay and rests his head on his paws.

"Hey pretty thing," he hears Daryl murmur, and he turns his head just enough to watch from his periphery as Streak paces in a small circle, her movements becoming more fluid as she relaxes. She nickers at them, and Daryl makes a soft noise back that reminds Rick of a whuffle. He's made that same sound to his horses, but he never sounded that natural about it.

After what seems like too long, and yet still sooner than he was ever expecting, Streak takes the last few steps separating her from the post and her treat. Daryl isn't moving, his head tilted forward and his eyes slanted toward Rick, but he knows for certain that the young trainer is watching every slow step the filly makes. She turns so her body is against the fence, her hind end toward Rick and her eyes firmly on Daryl, and takes the final treat. In the ensuing silence, they listen to her eating it, and the smallest smile curls across Daryl's lips when he slowly lifts his head.

"Tha's my girl," he hums. Streak's ears strain forward, her tail swishing slowly. Rick is stunned when her right hind hoof raises to balance on the toe. He's never seen her so relaxed around anyone who wasn't him - and rarely even _him_.

"Jesus, that's amazing," he blurts out quietly, but it's enough to break the spell. Streak spooks and whinnies shrilly, jerking her head up and backing away rapidly until she has room to spin and run to the center of the pen. She watches them, one front hoof stomping as she snorts. Rick feels crushed to see her so wary again after what progress they've already made. He curses himself for ruining things, but when he turns to look at Daryl, the other man looks too calm and amused.

"Ya act like we're back ta square one," he says in response to Rick's obvious confusion. "Sure, she spooked, but look’t her."

Rick does, and he feels his mouth drop open slightly. The filly hasn't moved from the center of the pen, but her head is lowered and she's licking her lips slowly in a way he's come to learn through the years means a horse is relaxed. He's never seen her like this before, and he can't stop the tight feeling in his throat that usually precedes a swell of strong emotions. At least this time it's happiness.

"C'mon," he murmurs thickly as he turns away and leaves Streak to her moment of quietness. Daryl follows without protest, grabbing the unused treats as he goes. He falls into place just to the left behind Rick, loping easily and keeping at least a step behind again.

"Not bad for two hours," Daryl muses as they round the corner and move seamlessly down the forebay together. "Didn' even need th' new treats after all."

Rick's gaze jumps to the sky, then to the old, tarnished watch around his wrist with the dents in the leather from where Buck had chewed on it as a pup.

"Holy shit," he exclaims. "It didn't feel like that long at all!"

"Time flies fer that kind'a thing," the trainer chuckles, his hands in his pockets and the treat bag tucked under one strong arm. He stops to grab his Stetson and overshirt; resting the hat securely on his head and dangling the shirt over his shoulder with two fingers. He looks so much more at ease now, his face relaxed from the pinched wariness he'd had when he'd stepped in front of Rick just over two hours ago. With Streak's relaxation, it seems he's found his own. "Need help feedin'?"

It's not an offer Rick was expecting to get, and he looks at the seven muzzles pressing between the slats of their doors, the barn echoing with wickers and snorts and the loud bang of Lays kicking her stall door. They should have been fed an hour ago, so he's surprised they're not being louder.

"Couldn't hurt," he decides with a smile. "Guess you should get to know everyone anyway." He smiles a little wider and adds, "Seeing as you'll be working with them from now on."

Daryl's head snaps up, his eyes wide beneath the brim of his hat. The shock only lasts a moment before fading into awkward hopefulness, his head ducking low and one corner of his mouth hitching into a crooked, shy grin.

"Liked it well enough, then?" he murmurs. Rick brings a hand up to pat the younger man's back and pauses, remembering his reaction the first time Rick had reached for him.

"More than well enough," he promises. "If you can do _that_ in two hours, I can't wait to see what you can do in two _weeks_. So yes, Daryl, the job is yours if you want it."

"Ain't we gotta talk wages?"

Daryl follows him into the barn, falling further and further behind when he stops to give every horse a chance to sniff him. Rick turns beside Business' stall, watching with interest when the younger man leans down to let Lays blow a warm, curious breath against his cheek. Daryl tilts his head and blows gently into her nose, murmuring something Rick doesn't catch because it's said so quietly.

"What's Lays short for?" his newest hire asks as he stands upright and turns to look at Rick. The light pours in through the open doors and high windows, spilling over the man's strong body and haloing him in rich golds that play shadows over his face and highlight the obvious strength in his lean form.

Rick swallows hard to clear his throat. "Lazy Amble. She's pretty fast, but she's a slow trotter to start."

Daryl snorts. Rick is beginning to realize that the other man doesn't laugh much. He expresses his amusement in other ways - huffs and snorts and quiet chuffs that remind him of when Buck is being especially sassy. "Fittin' name, then."

"I thought so too. Feed room's this way. You can say hello while we're filling bowls and checking water. We can talk wages, too."

Side by side, they move easily and with few words spoken as they work to feed everyone. All seven horses have to sniff and blow air at Daryl, and he repays them in kind. He says the same thing to each one of them - the same thing he'd said to Lays that Rick doesn't catch until he's standing right beside the man and watching him blow into Business' nose.

"Teach me you," he murmurs to the gray mare, and she nickers quietly to him. "An' I'll teach you me." He blows into her velvety nose again, her wide nostrils flaring, and she whuffles against his shoulder.

Standing back, Daryl strokes down her long, unmarked face and then gives her the smallest nudge with his fingertips. His right shoulder dips forward, and Rick watches as she turns to her dinner happily.

"What're you doin' with 'em, when you do that?" he asks as they move onto Badger. The retired gelding is swaying impatiently, stomping a hoof, and he snorts irritably before sneezing through the bars at Rick and laying his ears back.

"Oh really?" Daryl huffs, drawing the gelding's attention and bringing his ears forward again. "Tell me another story, old man." He leans forward, repeating the same greeting he's shared with all the others with the dark bay while Rick gives the horse his evening scoop of feed. Badger whuffles sweetly, same as the others, and Rick marvels when he licks his lips slowly and waits for Daryl's fingers to nudge against the softest part of his nose before he turns to his dinner.

"You're really good at this," he says once everyone's been fed. They're moving from stall to stall now - Rick throwing flakes of hay in for everyone while Daryl follows silently with the hose and tops off the buckets. He's never seen anyone who can move without making any noise. Daryl's feet are soundless, his jeans rolled up just enough to get the frayed cuffs off the concrete and help him stay quiet. He moves like a hunter, fluid and graceful, and Rick wonders what he'd be like in another setting. He wonders if Daryl's boots would be just as silent in the nearby woods and has to stifle the urge to ask.

Pale blue eyes slant toward him when they stop in front of Begger's stall. The colt is Rick's youngest and newest horse, only just turned two and in need of some manners when it comes to how mouthy he is. He's a handsome chestnut, strong and thick with a roman nose and eyes that glint with mischief. When he sticks his muzzle out and tries to lip at Daryl's shirt, the man snorts loud enough to startle him. He pulls his head back quickly, his ears twitching while they stare at each other. Daryl makes a softer noise that Begger echoes, and then the colt drops his head to start eating his hay without a fuss.

"Shameless Begger," Rick supplies with a quiet chuckle. "Still young enough to need some manners."

"Clearly." There's a smile hovering on Daryl's lips, something small and gentle when he looks in at Begger and watches the chestnut nose at his Timothy hay. "Always had a knack with beasts," he adds after a moment of comfortable silence between them. Rick is honestly amazed at how _easy_ it is to just enjoy a moment of peace with someone else, especially someone he's only just met.

"It serves you well," he replies quietly. "It suits you. You clearly love them, and I've never seen Badger warm up to anyone that fast."

"He's just sore in th' feet," Daryl mutters with a glance toward the gelding's stall. "Lame, prolly. And arthritic. Seems like an' old grump." He says it with a smile, almost missing Rick's stare until he makes a noise that grabs the younger man's attention. When Daryl sees his face, he leans away slightly and curls his shoulders in. "What?"

"You figured that out just from lookin' at him for three minutes? Are you _human_?"

He says it as a joke, but the way Daryl's expression goes blank like someone has slammed the blinds closed makes Rick wince and scramble to fix whatever it is he's just inadvertently done.

"I'm joking, I swear," he promises fervently. Daryl is eyeing him warily again, looking like the cornered stray Rick had compared him to earlier. The last thing he needs is to make the man feel the need to bite, or flee, so he holds up his hands in a placating gesture. "I'm bad at jokes, I'm sorry. I've just never met anyone who seems to _know_ the horses the way you clearly do."

Slowly, he sees Daryl relax, and he relaxes in turn. They finish giving the horses hay and water, and Daryl finishes his introductions with the beasts. Breathtaking Sky licks the sweat from his arm, the stallion's dark eyes curious and adoring. Savage Shadow will not stop fussing until he can nuzzle Daryl's hair, his dark muzzle pressed into the messy strands while his nostrils flare. The two are half brothers, built the same and bays just like their sire, although Shadow has a white stocking on his right hind leg and Sky has four white socks.

The last horse, and by far the quietest, is Slick Black Shoes. He looks at them with dark, doe-like eyes while placidly eating the hay they give him. Daryl rips a handful up and offers it, palm flat and thumb tucked tight just in case the horse mistakes it for a treat. He's got nothing to worry about, though. Slicker has never bitten a single person, even by accident, in the three years Rick has had him.

"Got some damn good horses," Daryl murmurs fondly while Slicker daintily takes the tuft of hay and hardly even brushes the trainer's palm with his lips. They blow into each other's noses again, saying hello - or maybe goodbye - before Daryl steps out of the stall and lets Rick pull the door shut with a quiet rattle.

For a moment, they stand side by side, their muscles loose and their heads tilted opposite ways as they listen to the sounds of the horses eating their delayed dinners. Rick looks at each beast, fully aware that Daryl is doing the same, and feels the swell of pride when he thinks of how far he's managed to come in just a few short years.

"There's an old apartment up in the back of the barn if you want it," he says quietly. Daryl takes a sharp, surprised breath, and he feels those pale blue eyes burning into the side of his head. "I know it's meant for trainers. It's been here the whole time; rented it out to a few guys before Streak drove them all away." He chuckles and watches from the edge of his periphery as the younger man relaxes again. "There's plenty of room in the house, too, if sleeping on the other side of the hay storage isn't for you."

"Don' bother me none," Daryl mutters. He's looking up toward the ceiling, a piece of hay tucked into the corner of his mouth that Rick hadn't noticed before. He's chewing on it, looking contemplative and guarded as his eyes follow the thick, dark support beams stretched from one side of the barn to the other. "Slept worse places."

"Room and board are included," Rick adds. "You don't have a curfew, but in case there's an emergency, I will need a way to get in contact with you. I'll need your phone number for that. Pay starts at sixteen-fifty an hour. If someone does well on the track, once we get them there, you'll get a cut of that too."

Daryl is staring at him again, looking a little bit like someone's just smacked him with a two-by-four. Rick has a feeling he knows why he's getting that stunned expression aimed his way, but he can't really feel too bothered by it. From what he's already seen, he has high hopes for what else Daryl can do, and if he needs to make the pot irresistibly sweet to tempt the reserved man, he's not above doing so.

Holding out his hand slowly, Rick tilts his head. "Sound like a good deal to you?"

The trainer chews hard on his piece of hay, his eyes darting from Rick's face down to his hand, then sweeping over the rest of the barn around them. He rocks back on his heels, his shoulders tense and his hat pushed low so that the wide brim hides his face while he thinks. Rick waits patiently, his hand still extended.

Rough fingers eventually scrape against his, making a shiver run down his spine. Their palms press together solidly, almost the same size and calloused in all the same spots from their similar lifestyles. He can't help how widely he's smiling, and when Daryl finally looks at him, he smiles wider. The younger man still looks faintly shell-shocked and wary, like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop, but the way his eyes shine tells Rick all he needs to know.

"Got yerself a deal," he rumbles, and they shake firmly to seal the verbal contract.

"Welcome to the ranch, Daryl Dixon. Let's go see about getting the proper paperwork written up, shall we?"

"Lead th' way, Mr. Grimes."

Laughing, Rick shakes his head. "Just Rick will be fine, honestly. Don't fancy bein' Mr. Grimes anymore. Rick's good enough."

"Rick," Daryl echoes quietly, and the way his name rolls off the man's tongue sounds better than it has any right to. There's something faint in the air, something that hums quietly but has the potential to crackle like electricity and burn like fire. They look at each other, pale blue skies and stormy clouds meeting and testing the rippling waters, and Rick watches the bob of the trainer's Adam's apple.

"Welcome to the ranch," he says again, finally letting Daryl's hand go and watching the way it hangs between them for a moment before being shoved into a dirty pocket. Daryl's hiding again, his shoulders trembling faintly, but he's not running. He's poised, waiting, but for what, Rick doesn't know.

Streak whinnies shrilly, reminding them of her existence, and the spell is broken. Rick tilts his head back and Daryl pulls a bent cigarette from his pack. He replaces the hay with it, lighting the end and walking out onto the forebay quickly so he can exhale the cloud of smoke into open air instead of irritating the horses with the scent. Rick follows him slowly, looking up at the ember oranges and bruised purples that are starting to paint themselves across the horizon.

"Our day starts at five," he mentions. Daryl nods shortly, saying nothing, and lets the nicotine calm him. Buck comes from the opposite corner of the training pens, alerted by their noise; laying himself at Daryl's feet and panting happily while the two men look to the sky and watch the daylight slowly surrender to night.

"C'mon," Rick eventually says with a nod of his head toward the house. "Let's go get everything squared up, and then you can go settle what needs settled. Room's yours whenever you want to move in."

He starts walking, listening to the near-soundless steps behind him and resisting the urge to glance back and make sure Daryl is there, one step behind and just off to his left. Buck roams ahead of them, eager for his own dinner. Streak whinnies again, the thunder of her hooves against the packed dirt louder than any noise made between the two men. Looking toward the filly, Rick watches her come to a stop in the middle of the round pen, her head high and her tail raised as she watches them.

The orange glow of the setting sun makes her look ethereal and beautiful in tandem, and when she rears with one last scream, pawing at the air, Rick hears Daryl hum softly.

"Damn gorgeous filly," he whispers, sounding breathless and awestruck.

"That she is," Rick agrees before he turns away and steps up onto the porch. Daryl follows him, silent and _present_ in a way no one has been with Rick in a long time. They step inside, letting the screen door swing shut behind them, and the sound of it slamming closed echoes across the ranch in a way that rings like an ending and a beginning simultaneously.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to my clock, it is technically Monday. Therefore, have your weekly dose of horseracing story! WOO.
> 
> This chapter has been beta'd by the wonderful katytheinspiredworkaholic, to whom I am very grateful. You are a gem. <3
> 
> Also, thank you to everyone who has read/commented/left kudos on this. It warms my heart to see y'all enjoyin' this so much already. ;u; *flails* We got a ways to go yet, so hopefully y'all keep on enjoyin' it!
> 
> HAVE AT IT

The distinctive roar of a motorcycle yanks Rick violently from his nightmare-filled dreams before his alarm clock can. He jackknifes into a sitting position, his curls a wild, tangled mess and his eyes wide. Buck is barking, leaping from his spot at the foot of the bed and racing down the stairs in a thunderous charge of heavy paws and the frantic tapping of nails against hard wooden floors.

 

"Who the hell?" Dragging a hand down his face with a groan, he scratches at his week-old beard and tries to shake himself awake fully. The nightmares hang at the edges of his awareness stubbornly, blood soaked and warped from reality the way only dreams can be. His side aches fiercely; one hand covering the burning scar as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands. His equilibrium is off, the world tilting dangerously, and he has to catch himself against his bedside stand before his knees hit the floorboards.

 

"Damn it." Hissing, he rubs his side to try and soothe the cramping pains and fumbles to turn the lamp on so he doesn't trip over anything. "Buck!" he shouts when the heeler continues to bark at the door. He's amazed he can even hear the dog over the engine of the motorcycle coming down the lane toward the ranch. Has anything ever been that loud before? Who drives a motorcycle at the crack of dawn, anyway?

 

Groaning again, Rick drags a clean, plain t-shirt out of one of his drawers and pulls it on before digging out a new pair of boxers. He hesitates for a moment before deciding to just wear the same jeans he'd worn yesterday.

 

He runs a horse ranch. His employees have seen worse sights than their boss in yesterday's muddy jeans.

 

Grabbing his Stetson on the way out the door, he shoves it onto his head; hoping it'll do a good enough job of hiding his hair until he has a moment to tame his disastrous curls into something more presentable. A glance at the alarm clock beside his lamp tells him it's quarter of five, and he makes a low, frustrated noise before doubling back to turn off his lamp and shut the alarm down before he forgets and it starts blaring while he's trying to help whoever was awake first make breakfast.

 

" _BUCK!_ "

 

The heeler finally quiets down, although he's pacing at the door and whining. Thinking he might just need to go to the bathroom, or that maybe he's too eager to meet whoever just arrived, Rick unlocks the main door and opens it - stepping out of the way in time for his dog to shove the screen door open and race out into the front yard toward the driveway. He's barking again, but at least he's outside this time, so Rick lets him go and makes his way toward the kitchen through the main living room.

 

His house is large, definitely too much for just one man and his dog to live in, which is why Rick allows his workers to stay in the empty bedrooms. It gives his home a more lived-in feel, and knowing that he's not alone in the middle of the night when he wakes up gasping for air from his nightmares goes a long way toward his peace of mind.

 

Beth is in the kitchen when he shuffles in, her pale blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail that bobs behind her while she hums quietly and stirs a bowl full of something Rick sincerely hopes is going to be scrambled eggs.

 

"Do you ever sleep?" he asks her seriously. She laughs, soft and sweet like bells and honeysuckle, and points to the coffee machine rather than answering. Rick stares at the full pot already waiting, trying to blink the last dregs of sleep from his eyes, and when the smell finally hits him he moans indecently and snags a mug hanging from one of the wooden pegs behind the sink. He fills it to the brim and brings it up to his face, breathing in the rich, bitter aroma.

 

"Give it a moment to cool," the young woman scolds him. Rick just grunts something unintelligible and burns his tongue with the first swallow. Even despite his scalded mouth, he sighs happily and waits for the caffeine to hit his system.

 

"Who decided five am is a good time to start the day?"

 

"You did, boss," she teases him. He snorts and toasts his own stupidity before blowing on his steaming coffee in the futile hope that he can get it to cool down faster - _before_ he gives himself burns on his gums and the insides of his cheeks. With the way he drinks his coffee, it wouldn't be the first time.

 

"Whose bike?" he asks next as he watches Beth pour the beaten eggs into a skillet already sizzling with melted butter that pops in little splatters against her hands. She barely seems to notice, her blue-green eyes flicking from her task to the window behind the sink. The kitchen is on the wrong side of the house, so neither of them can see the driveway from there - just the vast expanse of Rick's backyard and the paddock beyond it.

 

"New guy?" she guesses, glancing over at him. Rick rests his lips against the rim of his mug and makes a thoughtful sound.

 

"Could be," he agrees tiredly. Buck isn't barking anymore that he can hear, which could very well mean it's Daryl who just showed up and not some random intruder. "I forgot to tell him about the breakfast thing. Let me go say hello."

 

"Take him a cup. He might need to wake up as badly as you do." Beth smiles at him, her eyes twinkling, and Rick's playful glare just makes her laugh again before she turns back to the eggs. "Go on, get. Everything should be ready in about fifteen minutes or so. I'm making bacon and sausage, and Bob mentioned pancakes."

 

"Thank God for Bob," Rick sighs happily. He tops off his chipped blue mug and grabs a second one for Daryl. He wonders if he should bring some sugar and milk out onto the porch, but decides that if the trainer takes his coffee any way but black, he can come in and sweeten it himself, the heathen. "Bob is wonderful."

 

"Good morning to you, too," the man in question laughs as he comes into the kitchen from the side hallway that leads to the rooms he, Beth, and a young groomer named Glenn all occupy. "Yeah, I promised Glenn pancakes the other day. Figured today was a good day to pay up, seeing as we've got a new guy. Glenn's not the baby anymore."

 

"He still technically is," Rick chuckles. "Daryl's at least twenty-six. He's only a baby because he's new to us."

 

Bob nods happily. "Yep, that still makes him the baby."

 

"Don't let him hear you say that. Dunno how he'll take it." Picking up both mugs, Rick heads for the front door and side-steps Sasha as she staggers in from the family room with her eyes still mostly closed. The jockey has one of the bedrooms on the other side of the house, but she seems to enjoy not having anyone sleeping in the rooms on either side of her.

 

"Good morning," he says warmly. She looks at the coffee in his hands hopefully, and groans when he shakes his head. "Sorry, Sasha. One of these is for the new guy."

 

"Yay," she mutters. She sounds angry, but Rick knows she's just struggling to wake up. She's a sweet woman, if a little fiery; she just isn't a morning person at all. He can sympathize.

 

The caffeine is starting to kick in while Rick makes his way through the living room and uses his shoulder to open the rickety screen door. In the early morning darkness, he can see where the sun is starting to color the sky pink and orange on the horizon. The barn is still quiet for the moment, although he knows that won't last for very much longer. Streak is always the first of the herd to wake up, and she makes sure everyone knows she's ready for breakfast.

 

Daryl is still in the driveway, leaning back against the seat of the motorcycle he apparently owns. It's parked next to Rick's mud-splattered Chevy truck, looking small but no less powerful next to the bigger vehicle. The bike is made of sleek lines and gleaming chrome, and the body is as black as Streak's coat.

 

The trainer watches Rick as he steps off the porch, the cherry red tip of a cigarette glowing by his mouth in the greying light. He's got his dark brown Stetson still firmly in place on his head, the brim pulled low and his neck bent as he leans forward and peers from beneath the edge of it. Buck is laying at his feet, his head on one of the man's boots.

 

"Coffee?" Rick holds up the second mug and sips from his own, enjoying the heat and bitterness as he drinks and waits for Daryl to reply. The younger man looks at the mug, drawing deeply from his cigarette again and pulling it from his mouth to blow a slow, wispy cloud of smoke from his lungs. Tendrils cling to his Stetson, lapping against the dark hat before the breeze whisks them away and they dissipate into nothingness.

 

"Black?" he finally asks. He sounds even rougher than he did yesterday, probably because he's not fully awake yet either.

 

"Only way to drink it," Rick scoffs, and he's treated with the barest hint of a smile from his new employee. It's there and gone between one blink and the next, but it was _there_. Daryl reaches with the hand holding the cigarette, and Rick hands him his mug easily. He watches the way the man drinks the burning liquid like he doesn't even feel how hot it is, the lit end of his cigarette dangerously close to his Stetson. It's a fluid series of movements, well-established and set in stone from a routine that Daryl has probably done thousands of times by now.

 

"Thanks," he murmurs when he finally lowers the mug. He cups it in both hands, resting it against one thigh to balance it while he looks toward the barn. "She give ya any trouble goin' in last night?"

 

Daryl had offered to help bring Streak in before he'd left the day before, but Rick had waved him off good-naturedly and promised the young trainer that he'd have plenty of chances to play with the filly the following day. He'd looked a bit disappointed, but he'd left anyway, confirming the five a.m. start time before he was gone. Come to think of it, Rick hadn't seen a vehicle anywhere that didn't belong to one of his people already. How had Daryl gotten to the ranch? Rick isn't exactly set up close to civilization. The closest town is at least half an hour by car.

 

"Nah, she went in fine. Hey, how'd you get here yesterday?"

 

Daryl looks at him, his pale eyes glittering in the morning light as the grey burns out of the sky and broad strokes of pink and purple and orange stretch across the vast expanse of it. It's going to be a beautiful day, he can already tell - hot, but bearable. They'll be able to work the horses without having to worry too much about overheating them.

 

"Parked th' bike down th' road a ways," he says quietly. "Should'a done it t'day, too. I know it's loud. Figured it'd be easier ta jus' bring it in an' unload it, an' move it outta th' way after if ya need me to."

 

Leaning most of his weight onto one leg, Rick glances at the second seat of the trainer's motorcycle and realizes the odd shape he'd vaguely noticed before is actually a duffle bag that's been strapped down against the black leather. It doesn't look nearly large enough to hold everything Daryl owns.

 

"Are you bringing more later?" he asks curiously, and the way Daryl's face shuts down at that makes him want to bang his head repeatedly against the side of the house.

 

He needs to stop putting his foot in his mouth around this man.

 

"S'all I got, 'sides my crossbow. Figured that'd be safe enough with Dale for now." Daryl isn't looking at him now, the cigarette between his lips and his hand holding it needlessly there to help block some of his expression.

 

"That's fine," Rick says with false brightness, like having only a single duffle bag of possessions is perfectly acceptable and doesn't make him feel sad. Remembering his main reason for coming outside, he clears his throat. "I wanted to let you know, too. The crew gets together for breakfast every morning, if we can manage it. You're welcome to join in, seeing as you're one of us now. If you don't want to, that's fine. There are _always_ leftovers."

 

Pale blue eyes regard him with a look that Rick is becoming all too aware means he's caught Daryl off guard again. It baffles him that anyone who's known Dale Horvath for longer than ten minutes could be so blindsided by kindness. Daryl looks like Rick has just offered to sign over the deed to his ranch, his guarded expression cracking open into something fragile and painfully _young_.

 

"Breakfast, then th' horses?" he clarifies. His eyes wander to the barn again, some of his quiet confidence returning at the thought of being around beasts that always make sense to him. Rick watches him, forgetting about his cooling coffee as he notices the way the morning light makes what bits of Daryl's dark hair are visible gleam with auburn and gold highlights.

 

"Yeah, that's how we do things around here. They get fed at seven-thirty every morning, and seven every night. We turn them out after breakfast and muck their stalls. I like to give 'em a bit of time to expend some of their energy before we bring the ones in we want to work with and put 'em through their paces."

 

"Got a home track?" Daryl pushes himself away from the bike, startling Buck into sitting up, and pinches off the end of his cigarette. Rick doesn't comment when he grinds the cherry out beneath the toe of his boot while slipping the filter into his pocket. His defined forearms flex when he unbuckles his duffle bag from the seat and slings it over his shoulder.

 

"I'll show you everything after breakfast. You up for joinin' us? You can meet everyone at once, or you can meet 'em later on while we're workin'. Your choice."

 

Daryl looks at Rick, then past him at the house. He watches the younger man chew his lip thoughtfully, his fingers flexing around the handle of his bag.

 

"Gimme ten minutes. Gonna throw this in th' room, an' I'll be there."

 

He walks away quickly before Rick has the chance to reply, leaving his empty coffee mug balanced where he'd been sitting and striding purposefully toward the barn. Buck runs after him, determined to keep his new friend close, and Rick admires the pair of them. Daryl looks so natural with a dog at his side, his shirt dirty and his jeans caked with mud. He's clearly not afraid of a little hard work, and that's a good thing. This wouldn't work out otherwise.

 

Once the two have vanished into the darkness of the barn, Rick grabs Daryl's mug and heads back inside. He pauses just inside the screen door, looking at the two rooms off to either side of the large staircase thoughtfully. One is the main living room, the other resembling a den that they've converted into a common room; complete with a pool table and a large television with a few gaming consoles hooked to it. Even when they're not working, the group always enjoys spending time together in whatever way they can.

 

Both rooms have a rustic feel to them, with dark leather-and-wood furniture and bare, dark-stained floors. He's always been a country boy at heart, and he enjoys the warm, natural glow of wood more than the shine of stainless steel.

 

"Rick?" Beth calls. "We're in the dinin' room!"

 

Rick has to cut through the game room to get to the dining room, which has a table large enough to sit twenty comfortably. The others are already seated and waiting, all eyes turning toward him when he walks in. They look eager, the air heavy with anticipation, and Beth can't quite hide her disappointment when no one immediately follows him.

 

"He's comin', don't worry," he chuckles. Everyone brightens at that, and he loves their enthusiasm, but he doubts so much intense focus will go over well with Daryl when he finally shows up. "Tone it down a bit, guys. He's pretty skittish. Don't overwhelm him right off the bat."

 

"Sure thing, boss," Bob agrees readily. He's rubbing Sasha's back while she tries not to fall asleep over her coffee. "He takin' the apartment up behind the hay storage?"

 

Calling that three-room space an apartment is being generous, but that's technically what it is. The front half is an open-concept kitchen and living room, with just a short hallway leading to the bedroom and the attached bathroom. He'd offered to show Daryl the rooms yesterday, but the trainer has assured him that he would be more than comfortable in the cramped - in Rick's opinion - quarters. It's a decent enough size for someone like Daryl, he supposes - at least four hundred square feet of space. The rest of the upper level of the barn is divided into the hay and shavings storage, with a few lanes between the stacks to navigate the bales and bags.

 

Rick nods. "Yeah, he said it'd be more than enough for him." He hears the creak of the screen door and Buck's claws scrabbling against the floor, and he shoots everyone a meaningful look before taking his place at the table beside Glenn. The young man looks like he's barely awake, leaning over in his seat with his head resting beside his plate. He doesn't stir when Rick's chair scrapes loudly beside him, although he does mumble something that may or may not be a greeting.

 

"Out late with Maggie again?" Rick nudges the youngest member of the group playfully. It sometimes still amazes him that Beth is actually older than Glenn. She looks like she's barely eighteen, rather than being twenty-four. She's only half a year older than the Asian man, but no one would know it just by looking at them. It took _Rick_ almost nine months to realize it after he hired the Greene girls.

 

Daryl comes into the room already looking wary and anxious to bolt; his pale eyes flicking from person to person and darting away before anyone can catch and hold his gaze. His sweep ends with Rick, who is given the honor of being the only one the trainer stares at for any length of time. Buck sits at his side, panting happily and waiting for him to get comfortable enough to sit down so the heeler can no-doubt sprawl at his feet.

 

"Good morning," Beth says cheerfully. She's always been the first one to welcome anyone new, although her sunny personality is just about matched by Bob's cheerful nature.

 

"Hope you slept well," the older man adds right on cue. Daryl glances between them, his fists in his pockets and his shoulders hunched. He's left his hat in the apartment, which surprises Rick. He'd been fully expecting the young man to keep it all but glued to his head for a good long while.

 

After the silence starts tipping a little bit toward awkward while everyone waits expectantly, Daryl finally nods. He doesn't actually say anything as he edges further into the spacious room. He's looking at everyone again, probably seeing things about them someone less observant might miss. When his blue eyes find Rick's again, there's a question there that he reads easily.

 

_This all there is?_

 

"The rest of them will get here around eight or so," he offers. "These guys are the ones that board here, like you. It's become our tradition to eat together, I guess you could say. We sometimes take turns cooking. Usually it's just whoever's up first."

 

Another nod is all they get, and Daryl finally hooks his foot around the rung of a chair and pulls it out. Buck takes his usual spot under the table, probably waiting for the first scraps to "accidentally" drop. When Daryl is seated and looking at his plate rather than anyone else, Rick picks up the large ceramic bowl full of eggs and cheese.

 

"Eat up, guys. We've got a long day and a lot of hours until lunch. Remember the rule."

 

"Hydrate at high rates," Glenn mumbles as he finally levers himself up and slumps back in his chair. He's smiling tiredly and shaking his head. "Stupidest phrasing I've ever heard, but hey, it works."

 

The young groomer is to Rick's left, and Daryl is on his right with an empty seat between them. He's not surprised that the man is being so antisocial. He strikes Rick as the kind of quiet, introverted type who often gets mistaken for being surly because he doesn't speak much. Even when they'd been trying to relax Streak yesterday, he'd only commented on small things, and he'd only really interacted when Rick had been the one to start the conversation. They need to give him time to acclimate and get used to everyone. That shouldn't be too hard, with most of the group. The only real problem Rick foresees is Abraham, but at least the farrier has a good head on his shoulders, just like everyone else.

 

Conversation is slow and easy as they pass around the dishes. Everyone fills their plates, and Rick keeps an eye on Daryl to make sure he's taking a good portion of everything. He doesn't need his new employee passing out or skimping on meals, especially not on his first on-the-books day.

 

It turns out he has nothing to worry about. Daryl takes a decently-sized scoop of eggs, as well as a several links of sausage and strips bacon that have been perfectly cooked thanks to Beth. He also spears at least three of Bob's thick, fluffy pancakes, and he's working on cutting all of it up into bite-sized pieces when Beth's curiosity finally wins out.

 

"So, Daryl," she starts, and Rick watches the man freeze with a fork full of sausage and eggs half-way to his mouth. "How long have you been trainin' horses?"

 

Rick glances at Beth, who is fairly vibrating with excitement as she waits for Daryl to answer. There's no way for him to steer the conversation without making too much trouble for the quiet man. He seems more than capable of holding his own, and the last thing any of them need is to start off on bad terms, but Rick worries that too much attention will send him running.

 

"Couple'a months," Daryl finally mumbles. He shoves the bite of food into his mouth and chews silently, watching all of them from behind the protective shield of his bangs.

 

"A couple of months, and you already did _that_ with Streak?" Glenn sounds amazed, his dark eyes gleaming with excitement. He wants to be a trainer too, but he's never had the chance to find a mentor. Rick already knows how this is going to go, and he can't help but smile at the young Asian man's enthusiasm. "What's your secret, man?"

 

Daryl focuses solely on his plate, eating mechanically while his broad shoulders curl further inward. Rick is already opening his mouth to tell his well-meaning but excitable group to let the poor trainer eat in peace when the man himself speaks up again. His voice is so soft that Beth and Bob lean closer to hear him, while Sasha eats her breakfast and leaves him alone. She probably knows better than anyone what it's like to have to prove and explain yourself to skeptics. Rick has never seen a more talented jockey, even if she isn't the regulated height. It's gotten her more than a little bit of negative attention, but she never lets it get to her. She's damn good at what she does, and her bond with the horses is almost as incredible as Daryl's.

 

"Have a knack with 'em," the man mutters as he pushes around a few syrupy pieces of pancake. "Watched a lot'a Monty Roberts stuff, an' saw how he did it. Like his methods, so's I kinda adapted 'em ta what I'd need."

 

Rick looks up quickly, his interest piqued. He'd never thought to ask Daryl where he'd learned what he knows, but after watching him with Streak yesterday, it makes a lot more sense. He's heard of Monty Roberts before, although he's never seen any videos of the man in action. If Daryl chose to follow his teachings, it's no wonder the horses respond so well to him. Daryl is almost literally speaking their language with his own body - all without needing to say a single word.

 

"Monty Roberts?" Bob is grinning, leaning forward in his seat like an eager child. "He's the one that trained Shy Boy, right?"

 

Daryl nods stiffly and refuses to answer anything else the others try to ask him. Rick clears his throat before anything can get too out of hand, and everyone but Daryl looks at him. The trainer is focused on his lap, and Rick is almost certain he can see the dark, wet tip of Buck's nose peeking up from under the table. He doesn't actually _see_ Daryl giving the heeler any bites off his plate, but from the sounds the dog is making, he knows that's exactly what is happening.

 

"Finish up, guys. I think everyone will be waking up sooner than usual, so there's nothin' sayin' we can't start a little early."

 

The others agree, and the conversation falls quiet as everyone focuses on eating and going through their mental lists of what they need to do for the day. Rick eats his own meal, only glancing furtively at Daryl when he feels the man's pale eyes on him.

 

 _Thank_ _you_ , he seems to be saying. They give each other the barest of nods, something the others wouldn't catch, and Rick finishes the rest of his breakfast with a smile on his lips and a fluttering warmth filling his chest.

 

Something tells him that today is going to be a very good day. It makes it easier for him to forget the hellish remnants of his twisted nightmares, which is a very good thing as far as he's concerned.

 

Bob and Glenn land clean up duty. They make quick work of getting the leftovers into Tupperware containers and sticking them in the fridge before rinsing the plates and pans for the dishwasher. Rick leans against the wall beside the front door, looking out through the screen toward the barn and listening to the clatter and laughter coming from the kitchen. He's chewing his lip thoughtfully, wondering how everything will play out with Daryl, and if the trainer will continue to amaze him the way he had yesterday.

 

A nudge against his shoulder draws his attention to the object of his thoughts. Daryl's hand hovers between them, his dirty fingers curled uncertainly. Rick meets his hesitant gaze and tilts his head closer, the wide brim of his tan Stetson just about brushing Daryl's bangs before the younger man takes a quick step back.

 

"When ya turn 'em out ta muck, I wanna put Streak in th' pasture an' Lays in th' pen," he murmurs. That is not at all what Rick was expecting to hear, and his expression must convey his confusion, because Daryl drags his lower lip into his mouth to chew on it for a moment before visibly gathering himself to clarify. "She needs ta run an' get some'a that energy out 'fore I start with her. Let her be a horse a li'l while. She don' like it in th' barn anyway. 'Sides, I wanna see what Lays c'n do."

 

"Lays? You think she'd be good track material?" She's got decent speed, sure, but she's slow to start and stubborn to boot. She moves when _she's_ ready and not a moment sooner, from what Rick has seen so far.

 

Daryl shrugs as he slides around Rick and shoulders the screen door open. He steps out onto the porch and looks across the driveway to where the barn stands. Buck noses the door open again to join him, and Rick follows after his dog after a brief pause.

 

They stand at the top of the wide stairs, hands tucked in pockets and bodies slouched against opposite support posts. He hears a crinkling sound and glances over to watch Daryl pull a cigarette from his pack, which he then tucks back into the breast pocket of his muddy red button-up. It looks like it might have had sleeves at one point, but all that's left now is torn cloth that leaves those strong arms free of restriction while the frayed edges cling to the man's well-defined biceps. Rick's eyes follow the long, graceful fingers as Daryl brings the unlit cigarette to his mouth and lips at the filter to hold in place while he fishes out a tarnished silver zippo.

 

"Just not near the hay," he finds himself blurting out. He wants to smack himself for the words as soon as they've spilled out of him, and he's fully deserving of the unimpressed look Daryl shoots him. He wonders if it means something that the younger man already feels confident and relaxed enough to express a few more emotions without fearing any negative retaliation.

 

"Ain't stupid," he snips. Rick winces, scrambling to try and fix it, but then he realizes that Daryl is trying to _tease_ him. He wouldn't have realized it if he hadn't seen the sparkle in the man's eyes when he glanced up from beneath his hat - the slightest twitch of his lips that would have gone unnoticed if Rick hadn't been staring at him. It makes him grin, and Daryl's own hint of a smile gets just a little bit braver. The amusement is more in his eyes, the corners crinkling in a way that betrays him while the rest of his face remains stoic. He's an anomaly unlike any Rick has ever come across before, and he's already determined to himself that he wants to figure Daryl Dixon out in all his layered, complex entirety. There is far more to the quiet, introverted trainer than meets the eye, and he wants to know every glimmer and facet hidden behind that wary, distrustful barrier.

 

Men like Daryl are a rare breed, beautiful and wild in their freedom in ways others cannot hope to emulate. Inside Rick's home, he had been tense and uncomfortable. Walls make him feel caged, that much is easy to see. Out in the open air, he is relaxed and loose-limbed in a way he hadn't been at breakfast. When he jumps off the porch, landing in an easy crouch and with the crunch of shifting gravel under his boots, Rick follows. He uses the steps, chuckling when Buck copies Daryl's lead and avoids the stairs as he leaps out onto the driveway. The heeler keeps going, running toward the barn, and just after he gets through the door they hear Streak's shrill whinny as the filly finally realizes what time it is. She's mirrored by the others, the sudden symphony of hungry horses hurrying their steps. Lays is kicking her door, demanding attention and breakfast simultaneously as she so often does.

 

The noise barely quiets once they step into the barn. Rick looks around at his charges, his hands on his hips and a fond smile on his lips as he shakes his head.

 

"Bunch'a kids, every one of you," he chuckles. Daryl hums in agreement beside him, but he doesn't linger there long. Within a beat he's making his rounds, giving everyone their good morning greetings and slipping treats between the bars that are taken by gentle lips.

 

"Where'd you get those? They seem to really like them." Even Badger, who is old and fussy, takes the treat without hesitation and presses his nose against the bars in search of more. He blows a hot, eager snort at Daryl, and the trainer makes a quiet sound in return. His fingers stroke down the gelding's wide nose, soothing him, and Rick marvels all over again at how quickly the animals respond to something as simple as gentle touch or the twitch of a finger.

 

"Make 'em myself." Daryl turns away and passes Streak's stall, ignoring the filly when she pushes her hindquarters against the back wall and squeals. Badger kicks the dividing wall, whinnying angrily, and Rick shakes his head. He's going to have to change stalls around, it would seem.

 

His barn is on the larger size, with six stalls down one side of the aisle and eleven down the other. In the back on the left side is the tack room, which opens into the storage and feed area. It's where he keeps the brushes for grooming as well, and anything else they might need.

 

Up until now, he's been fine with Lays, Business, Badger, and Streak in the stalls along the tack room side, with the other four horses in the stalls opposite of them. As Streak gets older, though, and as Badger's arthritis makes him more irritable, it's becoming an issue.

 

"Switch Badger an' Slicker," Daryl says suddenly. Rick jerks in surprise and turns to look at the other man, who is already wheeling the converted trashcan they keep the feed in down the aisle toward him. He moves to help, unlatching each door one by one and keeping the horses back until Daryl can tip in their scoop of feed. They move with the same ease they had the night before, working seamlessly and with no need for words until everyone is fed and they can slide flakes of hay into each rack so the horses can get to it easier. It's how Rick prefers to feed in the mornings. At night, he tosses the hay onto the fresh shavings, but their first flakes always go into the racks.

 

"You think she and Slicker will get along?" he asks once they're side-by-side at the entrance and listening to the sounds of the horses as they enjoy their breakfasts.

 

"If not, ya c'n always switch up again. Think it'll be good for Badger, mostly. Gets him a bit more peace an' quiet. Ya ever think'a jus' havin' her turned out full time? She really don' like bein' cooped up."

 

"Thought about it, yeah. Feel bad havin' her out there by herself, though." Rubbing the back of his neck, Rick chews his lip and looks at all of the stalls. They're more than large enough, even for a horse the size Streak promises to be - paneled with dark-stained wood and topped by black wrought-iron bars spaced widely enough apart for a muzzle to press through, but nothing more.

 

Rick takes pride in the cleanliness of his barn and the open brightness of it. Every horse has access to a window, and it helps let in more natural light, rather than them needing artificial brightness to see by. He likes it when his horses are happy. He loves every single one of them, and to think that one of them is distressed leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

 

"So we'll pair her with someone who don' mind bein' out, too." Shrugging, Daryl pulls the cigarette out of his mouth. He'd never actually lit it, now that Rick thinks about it. He'd shoved the lighter back into his pocket before they'd gotten to the barn, and he's just left the unlit cigarette resting in the corner of his mouth while they've worked. He looks so natural with it that Rick hadn't thought anything of it. He watches the trainer tuck it into his shirt pocket beside the carton, then glances away when he realizes how much he's been staring. The last thing he wants is for Daryl to feel uncomfortable, but there's just something so graceful about everything he does. It's almost hypnotic, in a way.

 

"Who do you think would work best? It'd have to be a mare, or Badger. I can't turn her out with the stallions. Hell, I shouldn't even have them all this close together, anyway. It riles the boys up too much when the girls are in heat."

 

"Figure it out later. They're almost done, anyway. How d'ya wanna turn 'em out, t'day?"

 

Glenn and Bob come in while Rick is deciding, with Sasha a few steps behind them. Beth follows after another moment, heading toward Lays' stall immediately. The dark chestnut is her favorite of the bunch, and Rick knows how much she loves to groom the mare until her liver-colored coat is gleaming, but today she's going to have to wait.

 

"Hold up, Beth," he says, and the woman turns to him curiously. "Daryl wants to work with her first, today," he explains. "Would you be able to turn out Badger and Business together for me instead?"

 

"Sure," she agrees easily, giving them both a sunny smile and not seeming at all upset when Daryl hides behind his bangs rather than smiling back. He's watching her as she unlocks Business' stall, seeming intrigued that she doesn't try to put a halter on the grey mare before letting her out.

 

"They're really good for her," Rick murmurs just loud enough for the trainer to hear. Daryl doesn't outright look at him, but he can feel the younger man's eyes for a moment before they both watch the two horses follow after Beth with no need to be coaxed. They're as docile as lambs, the sound of their hooves against the concrete making Rick feel satisfied in a way that few things could ever hope to match.

 

There are very few things in life for Rick anymore that come close to the things the horses do for him. Even something as simple as their easy, off-sync walk as they follow Beth out the door and turn right toward the pastures makes him happy in ways that non-horse people wouldn't understand.

 

Almost twenty-six acres of Grimes Ranch is nothing but fields and small groups of trees sectioned off with sturdy, dark wooden fences. The last four acres are taken up by the barn, the house, and the training area. He's also got his small, dirt-packed home track, which he's excited to show Daryl. It's nothing compared to a real track, but it's served him well so far. It'll come in handy when they really start Streak's training.

 

The farthest pasture from the barn has a small stream that winds through it. Streak seems to enjoy that one the most, so it's the one Rick tries to put her in when he can. When that's not an option, he gives her the bigger round pen to run in - the one she'd been in yesterday when Daryl had shown up. Now he's thankful he hadn't been able to get her out into the pasture. She very rarely makes it easy for them to bring her back inside.

 

One by one, they turn the horses out in their groups. Badger and Business go to the East paddock, which nestles up to Rick's backyard and gets the most sunlight. Slicker and Shadow are turned out in the North paddock. It has the most trees, which they always seem to enjoy. It's a bit of a running joke among the group, because the pasture isn't actually located to the north. Bob puts Sky and Begger in the Main paddock behind the barn, and the two start racing each other immediately; kicking up their hooves as they gallop around the open, grassy space.

 

"Mind if I get her?" Daryl asks when Rick goes to find Streak's halter so he can lead her to the chute that'll get her down to her paddock. The filly knows what's going on, and she's whinnying shrilly in anticipation. She's impatient to get out and run, and Rick knows that she'll come out of her stall hard and fast, the way she always tries to. He eyes Daryl, wondering if the trainer knows what he's asking for, and the man ducks his head with a quiet huff. "Tol' ya before, I know what I'm signin' up for. Lemme try, at least."

 

"She tries to charge," Rick warns him. Daryl nods in understanding and digs a few treats out of his pocket before accepting the halter and lead rope. He loops them over his arm, shouldering them higher to make sure they stay in place. As worried as he is, Rick can't help but admire Daryl's calmness as they head back toward where Streak is now kicking her stall door and screaming, her ears laid back as she tosses her head and lets them all know how displeased she is to still be in when everyone else is out enjoying the fresh, sweet grass.

 

"Yeah, I hear ya, spitfire." Daryl rolls his eyes, but Rick can see that he's smiling just slightly. No one pays too much attention to them - they're already working on mucking out the stalls. Glenn and Sasha are picking out the manure and dirty shavings. Bob is bringing a bucket of powdered Barn-Dri to sprinkle around and absorb any lingering odors before Beth dumps fresh wheelbarrows of shavings to be spread around and banked against the walls. It's a routine they all know well by now, all of them working together and laughing while Daryl and Rick get ready to turn Streak out. Lays whinnies at them, obviously confused as to why she's been left in.

 

"You'll be out in a minute, girl," he promises her. For now, he has to leave her to her confusion, because Streak is quietly watching Daryl through the bars while he croons soothingly. He's not actually saying anything, and Rick watches the way his body shifts in the most minute ways as he resettles himself into a more comfortable position and offers a treat through the bars. Seeing it reminds him of what Daryl had mentioned earlier.

 

"You make your own treats?" Rick looks at it in the split second he has before Streak snatches it away. Her mouth hits Daryl's hand hard, but he doesn't react other than a snort, which she echoes as her ears twitch.

 

"Do it again, filly, an' ya ain't gettin' shit," Daryl murmurs. His voice is so much softer when he talks to the horses, the usual gruff growl almost completely gone from his tone. Rick knows the others are watching now while they work, wondering what's going to happen. "Yeah," he adds distractedly, answering Rick's question as an afterthought - as if he'd almost forgotten he'd been asked something. "Don' feed 'em nothin' I ain't eatin' myself, so's I jus' make 'em. Know what's really in 'em, this way."

 

He continues to talk quietly to Streak, pressed against the front of the stall and feeding her bits of treats slowly until she whuffles at him and drops her head a bit. Rick has no idea how he gets her to calm down so quickly, but she doesn't react other than a curious glance when he unlocks her stall door and opens it. The chest-high rope is still across it, a hopeful measure more than a preventative one, because she's broken at least three by now.

 

As soon as the halter slips over her head, Rick sees her tense. Daryl sees it too, but he doesn't react other than a low croon as he clips the piece under her jaw to the cheek ring and unhooks the rope guard from across the door. He doesn't jump out of the way, not like Rick does. Streak's muscles bunch beneath her dark coat like she's going to charge, but Daryl lifts his head and snorts quietly. Rick notices that he's not looking directly at her. He's not trying to challenge her; he's trying to show her she can trust him. Rick doesn't know what he's trying to convey through body language alone, but he tries to keep himself as calm as he can until Streak finally relaxes and lips at the trainer's shirt curiously.

 

Rick lets out the breath he's been holding, relieving his burning lungs with the air his tension had denied them. "Jesus," he breathes quietly. Shaking his head, he pushes his hat back so he can see better as Daryl slowly turns to give Streak his back. He's moved to the side, his shoulders dipping slightly, and Rick watches as he leads the filly from her stall with only a small amount of fuss. Streak is eager to run, it's probably the thing she loves the most, but every time she twitches like she's going to try and pull, Daryl stops and turns his head slightly.

 

It's the most incredible thing Rick has ever seen. The others have given up pretending to work and are blatantly staring. Beth's mouth is open slightly, and Glenn looks awestruck. Daryl hasn't once yanked on the filly's lead to put her in her place. He hasn't pulled her back when she's gotten ahead of him, or given her a slap on the shoulder or neck. He just stops and moves his body in the smallest of ways, ways that mean _nothing_ to Rick, but Streak stands and twitches impatiently. She clearly wants to get to the pasture, but she _waits_.

 

"How does he _do_ that?" he hears Glenn whisper incredulously as he follows the trainer out of the barn. Rick understands his shock, because he's spent innumerable days trying with all his strength to keep the bullheaded filly from dragging him across the driveway, and Daryl is leading her like an ill-mannered but moderately-behaved dog. He's still giving her treats, talking to her quietly as they walk, and Rick is so relieved he thinks he might _cry_ when they reach the chute without any mishaps.

 

"C'n ya get th' gate?" Daryl asks, glancing back at him. Streak looks too, so much more restless than either of them can hope to calm; standing with one back hoof raised so it's just off the ground. She looks like she's calm, like she does this every day, but they can see the tension twitching across her hide. "Prolly wanna make it quick. She ain't gonna play nice much longer."

 

That's all the motivation Rick needs to swing open the gate and climb onto the fence. Streak's chute is bordered by the North paddock and another pasture that he doesn't use much. Slicker and Shadow are already waiting at their fence line, their ears up and their eyes bright. He watches as Daryl unhooks the jaw strap and quickly pulls Streak's halter off, but he doesn't move quite yet. He puts a broad hand against her chest, looking so small compared to her much larger body, but he's clearly unconcerned when he catches her attention. She wickers, low and insistent, and Daryl _smiles_. Rick's breath catches sharply when he sees it, because it makes the younger man's whole face _transform_ in a way he never expected to witness so soon.

 

"Show me what ya got, pretty thing," the trainer croons. Streak's muscles coil, her hooves digging into the grass. "Show me how ya got that name. Show me how ya _fly_."

 

As Rick watches, Daryl twists to the side and leaves nothing but open space between Streak and the chute. The filly rears, pawing at the air. She screams triumphantly, and before her hooves even come down again she kicks off and _leaps_. It's the most breathtaking thing Rick has ever seen in his life. There's nothing for him that can compare to the power and beauty of Devil's daughter as she streaks down the chute - nothing but a black blur that hardly seems to touch the ground while Shadow and Slicker struggle to keep up with her. She's completely silent but for the thunder of her hooves against the dirt, the force of each step ripping up clumps that smack against the fencing on either side of her.

 

Once she reaches the pasture, she doesn't stop. She turns sharply into it, barely checking her speed, and races across the open expanse of grass with nothing to cage her in or slow her down. Her head is stretched out and arching proudly, her mane whipping through the air and her tail flagging behind her. She is everything Rick has ever loved about his horses - beauty and nature and raw _power_ condensed into a muscled body and the echo of hoofbeats that reverberate like thunder, the sounds clear enough that they can hear them even from where they're still standing.

 

" _That_ ," Daryl whispers, and Rick can't bring himself to look away from Streak as she finally slows to a stop and turns to stare up at them, "is why I do this. That is th' most goddamn gorgeous thing I've _ever_ seen."

 

Streak whinnies like she can hear him. She rears one more time, as if she's showing off, and they look on in breathless awe as she drops back down and trots toward the creek with her head held high.

 

"Think she's worth it, then?" he asks; finally managing to look away from his mare and seeing the open, awed joy on Daryl's face. He's not hiding anymore, has even pushed his bangs back to see better, and when he looks at Rick and smiles, his pale eyes are as bright and unclouded as the sky above them.

 

"I think she's worth _everythin_ '," he breathes, and Rick's heart lurches at the beauty of his horse and the beauty of the man leaning against the fences beside his leg. He starts to climb down, glancing out toward Streak one last time, and goes to close the gate while Daryl follows and looks like he's still in a bit of a daze.

 

"C'mon," Rick coaxes him, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder and watching clarity snap back into place. The muscles beneath his palm tense, but Daryl breathes in deeply and relaxes himself again. His bangs tumble back over his eyes, his barriers in place once more, but there's something new there when he jerks his head and signifies that Rick should lead the way; something Rick can't place, but feels important.

 

"A'right then, le's go get Lays an' see what _she_ c'n do."

 

"Alright." Rick heads back toward the barn, knowing without looking that Daryl is just one step behind him and off to the left. He feels his excitement quicken his steps, his stomach churning eagerly from everything that's already happened and the anticipation of what is yet to come.

 

The young trainer keeps up with him easily, his footsteps silent and his presence crackling with the same eagerness that Rick feels.

 

The future stretching out ahead of them looks so much brighter suddenly, and Rick knows it has everything to do with a coal-black filly with the fire of a devil in her and the speed of the wind. It has everything to do with that massive horse and the silent, sharp-eyed man at his shoulder who holds a love and respect for the beasts Rick has never seen before outside of stories.

 

The day Streak hits the track, she's going to leave her competitors in the dust, and Rick will watch with Daryl at his side as she shows everyone what a filly can do when she runs with the big boys.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's that time again! :D
> 
> This chapter is a bit shorter than the others, but I hope it's still satisfactory! Thank y'all so, so much for your comments and kudos, and thanks a million times to katytheinspiredworkaholic for her kickass beta skills!
> 
> *lays this out as an offering* Enjoy!

Lays is more than ready to get out of her stall, but she's also a lot more relaxed about it than Streak. Rick can't help but laugh when Daryl is able to open the stall door and slide the mare's halter on with no difficulties. Her ears are forward and up, her eyes bright and curious. When the trainer steps back he doesn't even have to coax her with the lead rope. She follows him willingly.

 

"I see where she gets her name," Daryl huffs. His eyes are shining as he turns and leads the horse out onto the forebay. Rick follows, watching the slow, easy gait Lays moves with. It really is somewhere between a lope and an amble, her long legs eating up the ground even though she moves at a relaxed, unhurried pace. It's not the best sign for a racehorse, but he wasn't lying when he told Daryl that once she gets going, she's _gone_.

 

The crunch of the gravel driveway beneath their feet brings Buck from around the side of the barn. As soon as the heeler sees them heading his way, he trots to meet them and circles around to hurry Lays along with quiet chuffs and gentle nips at her hind legs. The mare snorts at him, clearly unamused, but she doesn't kick back to try and deter him.

 

"Let's put her in the main pen," Rick suggests. "Want me to get a lunge line?"

 

"Nah." Daryl shakes his head and glances back at Rick, his eyes hidden by his bangs but not guarded like they always seem to be. He almost looks like he's trying to figure Rick out - like _he's_ the enigma. He's just a Good ‘Ol Southern boy with a love of horses and seeing what they can do when they put their mind to it. He's eager to see how Lays reacts to Daryl, because if the man can get _Streak_ to listen with just a little time and a bit of body language, it'll be interesting to see what he can get a people-pleaser like Lazy Amble to accomplish.

 

Rick chooses to lean against the fence rather than follow Daryl inside. From the glance the man shoots him, he thinks he's made the right choice. He has no idea what the trainer plans on doing when he's actually _in_ the round pen with a horse, rather than leaving treats here and there from the outside. Streak is an entirely different horse than any of the others he has. She's wild and fierce. Lays is not.

 

Rather than leading the dark chestnut by hand, Rick watches as Daryl unclips the lead rope and hangs it around the post by the gate. He clucks his tongue at Lays to get her attention, but he doesn't do anything aside from lean back against the fence and watch her.

 

Lays seems uncertain, one front hoof raised an inch off the ground as she watches Daryl and waits for some kind of signal. He doesn't give her one that Rick can see, aside from the slightest tilt of his head as he watches her in return. He's pushed his bangs back again, clearing his line of sight. Rick glances at him and frowns before looking at Lays again.

 

Eventually the mare sets her foot back down and drops her head to snort at the packed dirt ground of the pen. A plume erupts from the force of it, particles settling on her dark coat. Rick smiles as he watches her, already anticipating what he's pretty sure is going to come next.

 

Neither he or Daryl are surprised when the horse finds what is apparently the dirtiest spot in the round pen and goes down to roll. She's snorting and huffing, her tail swishing and thumping against the dirt with every half-completed twist and turn.

 

"Fifty points," Daryl mutters when she finally makes it all the way over. Rick looks at him askance, but the trainer is more focused on watching Lays enjoy herself. Now that she's rolled over once she's determined to do it again, it would seem.

 

"How'd you get started doing this?" he asks quietly. Daryl still isn't looking at him, but he knows the younger man has heard him. He can tell from the way he's gone carefully still, his posture appearing relaxed even though he no longer is.

 

"Tol' ya, saw how Monty Roberts does it," he finally grunts. "Looked a helluva lot better than th' way m'damn dad always ranted 'bout. Guess Monty's dad was th' same as mine. Go fig’re."

 

Lays finally hauls herself back to her feet and shakes a cloud of dirt and dust from her coat. There's no mistaking what she's done, not with the layer still sticking to her. She looks pretty pleased with herself, and Daryl huffs in amusement as he finally pushes himself off the fence and approaches the mare.

 

"Yeah, yeah. Got yer dust bath. C'mon now. S'time ta show me what ya c'n really do."

 

Rick isn't sure what he's expecting, but he watches with mingled interest and excitement as Daryl steps in front of Lays and lifts his head. She nickers at him and he whuffles back, standing with his feet shoulder-width apart and his hands loose and relaxed as his sides. For several moments, they just look at one another, Lays alert and patient while Daryl looks her over.

 

When the trainer finally moves, Rick almost doesn't even notice. It's not until his mare takes a slow step back that he realizes something is happening. Daryl is shifting in the smallest of ways, from his shoulders to the way he moves his feet, and Lays is responding like he's using verbal cues. She backs up until she's almost at the edge of the pen, her neigh quiet and sweet as she lowers her head and licks at her lips.

 

Daryl turns slowly, swinging his left shoulder around, and Rick stares as Lays moves with him. She starts to walk along the fence, her head bobbing with each easy step and her long tail flicking from side to side to disrupt the flies biting at her. She passes by Rick and doesn't even glance at him. She is entirely focused on Daryl and following the rotation of his shoulders as he moves in a slow circle in the center of the pen.

 

"How the hell..."

 

Pale blue eyes flick toward him, and Lays pauses to glance over as well. As soon as Daryl looks at her, she starts moving again. There's no rush, no need for a lunge line - no flick of a whip at her hindquarters to keep her moving. She's following Daryl's most minute body adjustments; speaking a language only they can understand while Rick marvels at the synchronization between them.

 

Daryl clucks his tongue suddenly, breaking the silence that has fallen over them. He pivots on his heel and Lays moves with him, turning to walk the other way smoothly. The trainer clucks a third time, this one sharper and louder. Rick sees him move a little faster and tries to follow every shift. Lays sees it too and moves seamlessly from an easy walk to a slow trot. She always keeps herself just behind Daryl, never trying to move faster than he is.

 

"How is he _doing_ that?"

 

Glenn looks stunned when Rick glances back over his shoulder at the young groom. His dark brown eyes are following Lays and jumping to Daryl intermittently, like he can't decide who to focus on more.

 

"Every time I ask, he keeps saying he watches Monty Roberts," Rick replies with a shrug. Glenn steps up next to him, hands curled over the edge of the fence as he watches Lays trot toward them. She's not looking fully at the man guiding her now, but Rick can see her eyes dart to him every so often as she looks for direction.

 

"He's not even using a lead!"

 

"I don't think Monty did, either." Shrugging, he pulls his hat off to run his fingers through his sweat-damp curls. It's already almost eighty degrees, and it's not even ten. Rick hasn't seen Maggie yet, but he knows she's around because her beat-up old Toyota is parked on the other side of his Chevy. The motorcycle is still where Daryl had parked it this morning, looking beautiful and sleek as it gleams in the morning light.

 

"It's all body language, right?" The groom is rocking up onto the balls of his feet when Rick looks at him again; chewing on the stalk of hay he must have plucked from one of the racks while he was mucking stalls.

 

"I know that's part of it," Rick agrees. "I'm not sure what else is involved, but they've been doing this for ten minutes so far and she hasn't tried to break away once."

 

As if proving his point, Daryl clucks his tongue again and pivots a little more sharply than he had the first time. Lays changes direction easily, her hooves kicking up plumes of dust as she starts to trot faster. She's level with Daryl's shoulder now, from what Rick can see, but she's still not trying to pull ahead. It's like she's _waiting_ for something, some signal or command that Daryl hasn't given her yet. She's snorting quietly, but she's clearly not out of breath. She's not even sweating yet.

 

"Is she _talking_ to him?" Glenn asks in bewilderment. Frowning, Rick looks at Daryl a little more intently and realizes that the trainer is guiding her with his body and quiet sounds that he hadn't even heard or noticed until Glenn pointed it out.

 

The man _is_ talking to Lays, in a way only the horse can understand, one of her ears turned toward him while the other swivels to listen to everything else. It's incredible.  But then, Rick's starting to believe that everything Daryl does is incredible in some way or another. He's never seen Monty's teachings in real life. He knows a fair amount of horse lovers who have probably never even heard his name before. It's a shame, honestly. If more people trained like this, there's no way horses would be ruined in the numbers he sometimes sees.

 

Racing is a hard life, especially when the horses have no chance to _be_ horses. When they're confined to stalls for twenty-two hours a day and only turned out when they're being worked - it's no life to live. That's part of the reason Rick is so adamant about his charges getting the downtime they deserve. By letting them be horses, he gives them the love and respect they are warranted, and in return they respond beautifully for him. Most of the time.

 

He lets silence settle in favor of paying attention to the magic unfolding before him. Glenn stays quiet too, his fingers clenching around the fence and his expression open and greedy as he tries to watch every single move Daryl makes.

 

Daryl doesn't even seem to remember that he has an audience anymore. All of his focus is on Lays. When he sets a new pace, he doesn't give a verbal cue this time. He just turns sharply and watches Lays spin to follow him, her hind hooves digging furrows into the dirt and her muscles coiling beneath her smooth, dark coat. She's cantering now, her head up and her tail raised. Rick is stunned by how beautiful she looks. In the four years he's had her, he's never seen her so eager to run so quickly. She always started slow, letting the others outdistance her, but once she really got going on the track or out in the open terrain around the ranch - she could outlast any of the others except Streak.

 

They're seeing that now as Daryl puts her through her paces. How he isn't dizzy, Rick has no idea. Even as he thinks it, though, he sees the trainer stop and turn to face them while the mare continues to canter around the perimeter. She's still following his directions, waiting for the signals that Rick struggles to see. Glenn seems just as dumbfounded, and just as excited. He's bouncing like a child at Christmas, his eyes bright and his grin so wide his face has to hurt.

 

"This is so damn cool!"

 

"It's certainly new." Leaning harder against the fence, Rick sees when Daryl tilts his head just slightly. Lays starts to slow down, sweat darkening her coat in slick patches. She's breathing harder than she was, and he knows that the sun and the heat have a lot to do with it. Daryl turns two more times, changing the direction and slowing the thoroughbred further until she's back to an easy amble and her head is bowed.

 

Not for the first time, Rick wishes he had an indoor arena. Out of the blazing summer heat, without the heavy humidity sticking in their throats and lungs, he has no doubt his horses would be able to run longer. He's not sure if Daryl is stopping now that he has an idea of what Lays can do, or if it's getting too hot to keep her running for long. He waits with Glenn, watching the mare turn toward the middle of the pen. She meets Daryl there, nosing at his hand curiously and lipping over his knuckles.

 

"How'd she do?" Rick calls out while Daryl relents and feeds Lays several treats. He's rubbing down her face and petting back to feel the heat and sweat on her neck; checking to make sure she hasn't overexerted herself.

 

Man and beast come to the fence together, and when Daryl stops with a foot of space between himself and Rick, Lays presses against his back and stretches her head out to rub her nose against her owner's shoulder. He laughs and pets her, looking at his introverted, awkward trainer. The younger man isn't looking at him right now, choosing instead to stare across the driveway toward the paddock where Shadow and Begger are turned out. When Rick glances back, he sees that both horses are standing in front of their pasture gate and watching intently.

 

"She's a long-distance racer, tha's fer sure," Daryl finally mumbles. His voice draws Rick's attention back to him. He tilts his head, and the other man gives him a one-shoulder shrug. "Th' speed an' endurance are there. Didn' wanna get her goin' too fast 'cause'a th' size'a th' pen, but she's barely winded after that. So yeah, good endurance racer."

 

Rick looks at Lays skeptically, but he quickly realizes that Daryl is right. Now that she's not running, her breathing has already evened out. She's sweaty, but that's understandable after the time Daryl's just put in with working her. Her sides aren't heaving, she's not blowing air - she probably wants water, but she's bright-eyed and watching them with interest.

 

"Turn her out?" he suggests.

 

"Lemme walk her ta cool her down an' get her a drink, an' yeah, I'll turn her out with Streak. I wanna see how they do t'gether."

 

Streak and Lays have been turned out together before, but Rick has a feeling that Daryl is suggesting it for more than just a couple of hours. He's not surprised, not really. Aside from Streak, Lays is the second most irritable about being in the barn at night. If turning them both out full time is what it takes, and if being together that long works out for them, Rick has no reason to argue. Nor does he want to. He's already finding out fast that Daryl knows his horses better than anyone else he could have tried to hire. If the trainer thinks it'll work, he's more than likely right.

 

"Let's get to it, then," he agrees. The smile Daryl gives him is mostly confined to his pale eyes, his lips barely twitching. It does something to Rick that he prefers not to think about right now. Not because he thinks it's immoral, but because he hasn't even known Daryl for a full day yet, and infatuation has many forms.

 

Still, he can't help but smile back, and when Daryl throws the lead rope over Lays' back and leads her with trust instead of physical touch, Rick shares a look with Glenn and follows after the trainer. He catches a glimpse of Maggie heading into the tack room as they walk past the entrance to the barn, but he doesn't disrupt her by calling out. She's a competent worker - born and raised on a farm, and more than comfortable around the horses.

 

"Think I wanna see what Shadow's got ta give," Daryl comments suddenly. Rick looks at him, seeing something in his eyes he doesn't know how to name. That's already a common enough occurrence when it comes to the trainer, but it makes him even more determined to figure out everything he can about the man that handles his horses more naturally than nearly every other person who has been around them for a lot longer than a _day_.

 

"Yeah? What're you thinkin' of doing with him?" Rick looks at the bay, smiling fondly when he sees the thick, black waves of the stallion's forelock tumbling into his eyes. "Do you think you have time to do much with him before lunch? You could always put him in the pen after we eat. I've got a few more people I want you to meet, anyway."

 

The prospect of being introduced to more people is not one Daryl looks happy about, but he says nothing as he leads Lays toward Streak's paddock with Glenn and Rick following behind. A significant glance toward the groomer has him muttering something about cleaning buckets and oiling the tack, and he's gone before Daryl has the chance to question his sudden departure. Something about it must tip him off though, because he tenses enough that Lays whuffles and nudges at his back when he stops in front of the pasture gate.

 

Rick watches him reach back over his shoulder to settle the mare, rubbing his dirty fingers against her dusty forehead before he swings the gate open and pulls off her halter. Like with Streak, he makes her wait for a moment. Unlike the filly, Lays is perfectly content to stand and look down the chute to where Streak stands at the entrance to the pasture. Her head is up, her ears forward, but there's nothing threatening about her stance. If there was, Daryl wouldn't step aside and cluck his tongue to let Lays know she's free to go.

 

The horse canters down the grassy chute, her muscles rippling beneath her beautiful coat and the wind making her mane stream behind her as she runs. Her speed is nothing compared to Streak's, but there's no denying the beauty of her fluid gait or how seamlessly she slows down; how she leans into the turn as she swings to follow Streak when the filly bolts with an echoing whinny.

 

Seeing the two horses run side by side, Lays' longer body and her lighter coat contrasting beautifully with Streak's ink-black form, makes something good clench in Rick's chest. He has never been prouder of his horses - or more aware of just what they are capable of - than he is right now.

 

"We've got less than six months to get her ready for the track," he murmurs. He looks at Daryl and finds that the younger man is already watching him; his pale blue eyes as fathomless as deep mountain lakes. Rick has barely made ripples across the surface of the pool that encompasses who Daryl is. He's kept his explorations timid and reserved for fear of chasing the introverted, socially awkward man away, but now is not the time for kiddie gloves. There are things Rick _needs_ to know, and he's going to have to ask them whether Daryl wants him to or not. "Do you think she'll actually be ready by September?"

 

It's still early May, despite already being so hot. That gives them four months until September, when the prep season for racing begins. Rick knows that Streak has the speed and stamina to blow away the competition. All she's lacking is the training to hone her skills into something that will be unstoppable. Four months is pushing it though, in his opinion. Especially for a horse like her.

 

"I think she'll be more th'n ready," Daryl replies honestly. He's playing with his tattered belt loops, hooking his fingers through them and tugging. He tips his head forward, hiding behind his bangs again, and Rick lets him for now.

 

"You sound so sure about this." Giving in to his curiosity, he ducks his head and searches until Daryl is staring back at him and chewing his lip. "You really mean to tell me that you think that filly will be _one_ _hundred_ _percent_ ready for the track in that little amount of time? I love her, but even my secretary sees how much work she needs. What makes you think she'll be ready?"

 

"Monty gained Shy Boy's trust in jus' three days, an' he was a _wild_ _mustang_." Daryl is shifting from side to side, swaying in a way that reminds Rick of a barn sour horse. "I know I ain't him, but ya see how she responds ta me a'ready. Give her a li'l bit'a time an' work, an' she'll blow y'all away."

 

"You're already doing better than I ever could have imagined," Rick says honestly. He ignores the way Daryl stares at that, because thinking of how insecure the man is around everyone, how ready and resigned he seems to be to anything but kindness, is enough to make Rick want to hurt people.

 

He's never been a violent man. He'd gotten into his fair share of fights while he was a police officer, but those were sometimes part of the job description. This anger is nothing like that, nothing so neatly boxed and labeled as a suspect resisting arrest. It's wild and untamed, burning through him like a fire and leaving him shaking faintly from the sudden surge of it.

 

"You're a good man, Daryl," he says, and he looks at the trainer - _really_ looks at him - catching those wary eyes and refusing to let him look away. "You know my horses better than even I do, you know that?"

 

"Nah," the man scoffs. He looks uncomfortable and uncertain; like Rick has ripped the rug from under his feet and left him scrambling to brace himself on unstable ground. "You've had 'em long 'nough ta know 'em. M'just some new face they's fallin' over each other ta see. They'll get over it."

 

Rick stares. "This isn't a _school_ _yard_. This isn't some classroom where the kids huddle and whisper about the new guy. Daryl, no one but me has been able to turn Streak out _safely_ in almost two years. No one can work with her. No one even _tries_ anymore. Badger never warms up to anyone that fast. Buck would rather watch from afar than stick to anyone like he stays with you." He looks pointedly at the blue heeler, who is laid out on his side not two feet from where they're standing, his nose angled toward Daryl and his sleepy brown eyes fixed on the trainer adoringly. When they look at him, his tail thumps slowly against the driveway.

 

"Animals're my _life_ ," Daryl murmurs with quiet conviction. Rick has to strain to hear him, because now that they're not looking at each other, the young man is curling into himself and trying to hide without actively running and searching for a shadow to slip into. "They's th' only ones who've ever-" He cuts himself off and rakes a hand back through his hair roughly. Rick winces at the way his nails scrape over his scalp and catch in tangles that he rips at carelessly.

 

"No one is going to discredit you here," Rick promises quietly. He looks toward the barn, giving Daryl the comfort of pretending he's got privacy to pull his walls back up. It hurts to do, because all Rick wants is to grab one of those broad shoulders and make Daryl _see_ just how good he is, how _incredible_ he's already proved himself to be, but he knows doing that right now will make the trainer run. And if he does, there's no guarantee he'll come back. Rick isn't willing to risk that for so many reasons.

 

"Don' even give no fucks if they do. Ain't like m'not used ta it. Can take fuckin' _words_ from people."

 

As opposed to what? Rick doesn't say it, though. He knows better, knows exactly what will happen if he does, and he's not willing to risk this. Not just because he needs someone who knows his horses, but because he already sees so much in Daryl that it makes him _ache_. There's so much potential, so much beauty. It reminds him of Streak, if he's being honest with himself. Both Daryl and the filly are wild, driven by their own circumstances and influenced by forces beyond their control.

 

Streak can't help her lineage. She can't help being so large and so strong-willed. It's not her fault that people would rather give her a wide berth than come in close and see her for who and what she really is. Rick has always seen it, and he loves her more than he could ever put into words if someone asked him to. He just lacks the knowledge of how to bring out the greatness he sees in her.

 

Daryl knows how to do that. The trainer is people-shy, and for good reason. Rick can deduce a lot from a little information, and he would bet the deed to his ranch that Daryl's wariness stems from abuse. It makes the anger in him burn hotter, and he's careful not to let it show. He knows Streak isn't afraid to strike without prompting, but he's not sure how Daryl will react to having it brought up so blatantly. The outcome won't be good, he knows that much, but whether Daryl will lash out like a cornered animal or bolt is what keeps Rick from really pressing hard.

 

"Did you get your love of animals from your parents?" he asks instead. It's a safer topic as far as he's concerned. Glancing at his watch, he sees the time and knows that Abraham will be showing up shortly with lunch. The farrier doesn't always come in with everyone else. He has other stables he tends to aside from Rick's, and he's a bust man. He always, without fail, comes with lunch though. He keeps those few hours clear to bring food and check Rick's horses, even if none of their hooves need trimmed.

 

Daryl makes a sound Rick isn't sure how to identify - something between a snort and a harsh bark. It makes Buck roll over onto his belly, his head up and his ears quivering. "Ain't got shit from my daddy but lessons on what _not_ ta do," he spits. The amount of venom in his voice tells Rick everything he needs to know about that particular relationship.  The man's face softens then, his next words lighter and wistful. "Got m'love for th' beasts from my mom. She had a way with 'em... can't even describe it. Was lit’rally like magic."

 

"Sounds like you," Rick chuckles. Daryl shrugs, rubbing at the back of his head and looking caught between feeling awkward and biting back his instinctive need to deny the claim.

 

"Had nothin' on her," he mutters. There's a moment when he looks indecisive, and Rick watches him physically gather himself, squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath. "She was full Cherokee," he says quietly. Rick's eyes widen slightly, and he really _looks_ at Daryl, his eyes taking in the man's physical presence in a new way. It doesn't go unnoticed, but he's not snapped at or told to stop. "Took after her in some ways. Others, not so much." His mouth twists into a self-deprecating smile before softening into something sweeter. "She showed me how ta have proper respect for them, an' th' land. Showed me a lot'a things my daddy didn' like."

 

"She sounds like a remarkable woman." Rick smiles gently when Daryl looks at him. He sees the anguish tucked away in those pale blue eyes, something still felt so bitterly even if the trainer tries hard to forget about it. His mother is dead, and her son misses her in a way that speaks of sudden, ugly loss. There was no warning, no closure. She was just gone, and Daryl has suffered without her.

 

"She was," he agrees hoarsely. His eyes are bright in a way Rick recognizes easily, and he's grateful when he hears the familiar sputtering roar of Abraham's old, beat-up Jeep coming up the driveway. Rick's ranch is set back a good mile from the road, which helps add to the feeling of seclusion and being removed from the rest of society. He loves it, loves being so far away from everything after spending so long completely immersed in people and their shortcomings.

 

Rick loved being a police officer. He loved helping people, and even on the days it felt like justice wasn't enough - when the bad men walked free and the families they ripped apart were left to suffer knowing their loved ones weren't avenged - he knew that somehow, in some way, he was making a difference. Maybe it wasn't always immediately apparent, but months down the road, when the next guy couldn't sweet-talk the jury and he went to jail, Rick could rest knowing at least one more evil soul was off the streets.

 

Then there were the abuse cases, with the battered woman and their quiet, wary children. Those were always the hardest for Rick, because to see the marks and _know_ what they were from, even if the victims were too afraid or too cowed to admit it, made the darkness in Rick roil in ways nothing else could.

 

Carol Peletier was one of those women, and Rick was the one to finally make the arrest when she decided to press charges against her husband. Watching Ed Peletier go to jail where he belonged was one of the most satisfying moments of Rick's life back then. Seeing Carol sitting in the passenger's seat of Abraham's mud-splattered green Jeep now, smiling and looking so much more at peace while her young daughter leans out the back window and watches the barn get bigger, is even more satisfying.

 

"Guess 's lunch time?" Daryl asks quietly. Rick nods, licking his lips and ignoring the way his stomach rumbles at the prospect of food. "We eatin' inside?"

 

"We sometimes do. Usually we all gather on the forebay," he replies. "Today is Tuesday, right?" When Daryl nods, Rick grins. "Hope you like pizza and wings, then. That's usually what we have."

 

"Food is food. Ain't picky." Daryl shrugs like it doesn't matter to him one way or the other. "I'll meet y'all in a few minutes. Wanna check somethin'."

 

"Okay." Whether the trainer even hears him, Rick has no idea, because Daryl's already in the barn with Buck at his side by the time he answers. Leaving the man to his moment of peace, he turns to watch as Abraham pulls into the wide, circular part of Rick's driveway. The farrier parks in front of the barn, on the side with the training pens; killing the engine and shoving his door open before the keys are even out of the ignition.

 

"Howdy, cowboy!" he shouts with a grin. Rick laughs and goes to meet him, grasping the redhead's forearm in greeting and nodding.

 

"You do this every day, Ford. You act like we haven't seen each other in weeks."

 

"Every moment away from your pretty face feels like years, friend," Abraham replies with a cheeky grin. "That beard gets more impressive every time I see it. What's your secret?"

 

"Laziness, mostly. There's been so much to do lately that I haven't really bothered with it. Need help unloading?"

 

"If you're offerin', I ain't sayin' no. Shit, y'all eat like you ain't had a proper meal in weeks, you know that?"

 

"Yeah, I do." Rick is already heading toward the back of the Jeep, where Sophia has swung the door open and is trying to carry four large pizza boxes by herself. She's a strong, determined little ten year old, but she hasn't grown into herself yet, so Rick comes to the rescue before lunch ends up on the gravel.

 

"Thank you," she says sweetly. While his arms are full, she takes advantage and hugs him from the side. Her giggle is light and sweet, and looking at her now, Rick can't see even a hint of the terrified girl he'd first met, whose blonde hair had been cut short; dark bruises ringing her eyes and smudged down her thin arms. Now she's healthy and unmarked by violence, smiling brightly enough to put the sun to shame.

 

"No problem, sweetheart." He grins affectionately. She giggles again before Carol calls for her, and then she's running to help her mother unload the drinks. Rick follows at a more sedate pace, smiling warmly at Carol when the woman sees him. "Hello, Mrs. Ford."

 

She blushes slightly, but her blue eyes are warm and happy. Abraham is a loud, boisterous man, but his heart is made of gold, and he's as gentle as a lamb to Carol and her daughter - _his_ daughter, because the second he'd proposed to Carol and she'd said yes, he'd filed the paperwork to adopt Sophia. They've been married for almost a year, but Carol still gets demure whenever someone addresses her as Mrs. Ford. Rick knows she'll never find a better man for her, and she knows it too. She's come a long way from the scared, timid mouse she used to be.

 

"How's the new hire working out?" she asks. Glenn appears like a ghost beside her, already reaching for the homemade jugs of tea in her hands. She gives them over without a fuss, laughing at the young groomer's determination to help even though it's not necessary.

 

"Carol, he's amazing," Rick breathes. He knows he sounds like a schoolboy with a crush, but he can't help it. He doesn't think he could ever put into words exactly how incredible Daryl has already proven himself to be, but he can certainly try. "He put Streak out basically by _himself_. She responds to him so quickly. Everyone adores him. Buck barely leaves his side."

 

"High praise indeed," the woman agrees. She's been Rick's secretary long enough to know the heeler's habits and how he is with people. To hear of him being already so enamored with a newcomer has her eyebrows raising slightly. She's impressed, he can tell, and also curious.

 

"Dad!" Sophia shrieks gleefully, and Abraham's laugh precedes the man himself loping around to their side of the Jeep with her up on his shoulders. She's gripping handfuls of his curly red hair, probably hard enough to hurt, but he doesn't look even a little bothered by it. "Dad, put me down, I wanna help!"

 

"Princesses _watch_ the peasants work. They don't sully their delicate hands with _labor_ ," Abraham sings back. Rick laughs and Carol chuckles, looking affectionate and fondly exasperated in turn. The others are coming from all corners of the property, drawn by the noise and the hungry ache of their stomachs. Maggie and Beth already have plates and plastic silverware. Bob has rolls of paper towels and bottles of ranch and bleu cheese tucked under his arms.

 

Buck barks excitedly, and Rick turns to see the heeler come running out of the barn. Daryl is following at a much slower pace, his shoulders hunched and his Stetson once more on his head with the brim pulled down to cover his face. Rick is opening his mouth to call out to the man when Carol beats him to it.

 

"Daryl?"

 

The trainer's head snaps up, his wide eyes fixing on the woman who is already moving toward him quickly. Rick looks between them, wondering if they've already met before. He'd told everyone through a group message yesterday that he'd hired Daryl, and Carol had never mentioned knowing him. The way she's reaching toward him now, her smile wide and her eyes bright, makes it pretty clear that she does.

 

"Carol?" Daryl whispers, looking surprised and painfully young. He doesn't flinch away when she hugs him. In fact, he leans closer and presses his head against her shoulder, his strong arms enveloping her carefully; like he's afraid she'll break if he holds on too tightly.

 

"Rick didn't tell me he'd hired _you_!" The older woman turns to give him a playfully stern look. Rick holds his hands up helplessly.

 

"I take it you know each other, then?" he asks, even though that's easy enough to see. Daryl's hands are in his pockets again now that they aren't hugging, his expression conveying his discomfort at being the center of attention.

 

"We do, but I haven't seen him in a few years at least. Not since-"

 

" _Don't._ "

 

Daryl doesn't say it loudly, but the amount of force he packs into that single word makes Carol's mouth snap shut. They share a look, something passing between them that Rick isn't sure how to name. Eventually, Carol nods and smiles softly.

 

"It's good to see you again, sweetie. I've been so worried about you." She says something else, something meant only for Daryl to hear. He nods stiffly, looking away, and she seems satisfied with that.

 

"Alright then, guys, let's get everything set up and get ourselves a good meal before the afternoon heat kicks in." Rick claps loudly, more to divert everyone's attention to him than as necessity. Daryl is twitching like a newborn foal, looking unsteady as he tries to navigate this new situation. He needs a minute to gather himself, and Rick is more than willing to give him that. "Abraham, did you really need to buy _seven_ pizzas?"

 

"You tell me," the farrier laughs as he and Sasha set them in piles dictated by the toppings so that it's easier for everyone to grab what they want quickly instead of searching for their preferred kind. "Got damn near eighty wings, too. Half mild, half hot. If there's leftovers, I'm kickin' someone's ass."

 

"If there's leftovers, it's because you buy enough to feed an army," Rick retorts. Seven pizzas is a lot, but when he looks at the group of people gathered around on the shaded forebay, he knows it's really _not_. He and his rag-tag family do hard work, and if anything, seven pizzas might not be enough.

 

Daryl sits a with his back against the cool stone wall of the barn, knees bent and his plate held close to his chest. He's closest to Rick and Carol, probably because he's the most comfortable with them. He eats quietly, his head bowed so he doesn't have to see if anyone is looking at him. The others are already used to his wariness, so they leave him be while they talk and laugh amongst themselves.

 

Abraham has no such qualms, naturally. "So, Daryl," he says, and Rick contemplates how childish it would be to throw his crust at the man to shut him up. He sees Daryl tense from the corner of his eye. "You a Dixon, then?"

 

"Yeah," the trainer grunts. He sounds like he's pried the word from his throat, forcing it off a tongue that resists answering. "What of it?"

 

"Abraham," Carol chastises quietly. Her husband looks at her, frowning. Then he smiles.

 

"Relax, sugar," he chuckles. "I ain't gonna crucify the kid. Shit, I know he ain't like them. Wouldn't be so high in your regards if he was. Sure as shit wouldn't be _here_."

 

"Don't fuckin' talk about me like I ain't here, asshole," Daryl snaps suddenly. His voice is loud enough and angry enough to shock the others into silence. Glenn stops with a slice of pizza halfway to his mouth. Rick freezes with a hot chicken wing burning his tongue.

 

"He didn't mean it like that, honey," Carol promises. She meets Daryl's angry eyes imploringly, and Rick watches the tense, silent conversation that follows. He holds his breath, ignoring the pain from his lunch searing his taste buds. He doesn't even attempt to chew until Daryl finally nods and the tensions diffuses.

 

This is the first time he's seen the young man get so heated about something. His family is clearly a sore topic for him - at least some aspects of it, anyway. There's something about his last name that makes him defensive.

 

Rick thinks back to the day before, when he'd asked for Daryl's name and the _Dixon_ had been whispered, like he'd been afraid of the consequences of admitting it. As if his last name is a curse that holds the potential of ruining a lot of things before they ever even begin. Even the way Abraham had said it is telling in its own way. The farrier doesn't often have an issue with others. He's too easy-going once you look past his brusque way of talking and learn to ignore his cheerful, affectionate insults. He either likes you, or he ignores you, because his life is too busy to deal with bullshit - in his words.

 

After a few moments, conversation picks back up again. It's muted to begin with, but when Abraham extends the olive branch by passing Daryl a jug of Carol's sweet tea, which the trainer takes with a nod, the last of the tense air that's been hovering melts away.

 

"Can I watch ya workin' with the horses this afternoon?" Maggie asks once everyone is relaxed and joking again. Several eyes turn toward the trainer, although no one stops eating or talking. Abraham glances at Rick, who smiles and tips his head slightly. Buck huffs beside him, his eyes fixated on his owner's plate as he waits hopefully for a scrap or two to fall. Rick gives the heeler his uneaten crusts and scratches behind his ears while meeting Daryl's searching eyes.

 

_You okay with it?_

 

Smiling, Rick offers him a small nod, something that wouldn't be easily noticed. When Maggie glances between them, he's already looking toward the pastures and eating another slice of pizza.

 

"Sure, guess ya can," he hears Daryl mutter. "Gon' be workin' with Shadow, see what he's got."

 

"Oh, he's my _favorite_!" the oldest Greene girl sighs happily.

 

"Yeah? Seems like a good horse. Decent speed. Could get better, I think. Gon' hafta wait an’ see."

 

Rick smiles down at his plate, letting Buck lick his fingers while he listens to the sound of his makeshift family slowly pulling Daryl into their orbit.

 

"I saw Lori the other day," Carol murmurs into his ear. He looks over at her, ignoring the way his chest gets tight and the way a cold lump settles in his stomach. He has no real interest in hearing about his ex-wife, and Carol knows it. If she's bringing it up, there must be a reason.

 

"Yeah?" He can feel Daryl's eyes on him, but he doesn't look over. "How's she doin'?"

 

"She says she misses you. She wants to know how you're doing." Carol smiles at him, understanding all the things he will not say. "I told her you're doing well. Even mentioned you found someone who's caught your interest. She didn't look very happy about that."

 

"You lied to her?" Rick can't help but laugh at Carol's mischievous ways. It's a soft, fond sound, and she laughs with him before patting his arm.

 

"Of course I didn't, sweetie. Besides, even if I had, how would she know?"

 

"But I'm not seeing anyone." He looks at her askance, and her smile turns playful and conspiring. It makes him even more confused.

 

"Not yet," she agrees. She glances away, and when he follows her eyes he sees Daryl watching them from beneath the safety of his hat. Rick's heart thumps heavily in his chest, and he can't help but smile at the trainer. When Daryl smiles back, it's small and shy and more than enough to make his cheeks warm. He looks at Carol again and sees her watching him with a gentle expression on her face.

 

"You deserve so much happiness, Rick," she says quietly enough that no one but him can hear her. "Don't let anything get between you and what gets you that happiness. Life is too short for guessing games. You'll never know if you don't take a chance."

 

"How do you know it'll even pay off?" he argues softly. Her smile gets a little bigger, and she squeezes his forearm.

 

"Guess you just gotta decide if the risk is worth taking. You don't have to do it now. Some things take time. When you're ready, though, don't let anything stop you, or you'll never know."

 

She gets up then, leaving him to chew over her advice with every bite of pizza. He watches her settle beside Beth, the two of them leaning close and giggling over something that makes Bob protest playfully.

 

His eyes wander back to Daryl, the way they always do. Buck has managed to fit himself between the man's knees when Rick wasn't paying attention. He's accepting each morsel of food daintily, his wagging tail thumping against Daryl's boots.

 

Their eyes meet, pale blue hidden from the others but open to Rick. He sees so many things there it's a wonder Daryl can sit so calmly. No one should have that many different emotions warring within themselves and be so unaffected. The trainer smiles for him again, his lips barely twitching while the corners of his eyes crinkle. Rick smiles back wider and sees how the younger man looks away to chew on his lip.

 

Rick is a patient man. He waits until Daryl looks back at him and nods before looking away; letting the shy, reserved man know without words that it's okay.

 

Maybe this risk will be worth it, but it's still too soon to try and find out. For now, Rick is content to let Daryl set the pace as he coaxes him closer like a wary stray, offering comfort and warmth and leaving the door open for the trainer to make the final decision. If he chooses to stay beyond the door, Rick will understand.

 

He hopes Daryl chooses to come inside and curl up in front of the metaphorical fire. He deserves a warm home and kind words after going so long without.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, it is technically Monday where I am, so have chapter four, y'all! So many thanks again ta katytheinspiredworkaholic, who checked through this and made some sense out of my ramblin'. <3 And thanks ta all y'all goddamn wonderful people for commentin' an' leavin' kudos. Means so much ta me, guys, I swear. ;u; *flails*
> 
> Enjoy!

“Ya should put her in th’ Iroquois.”

 

Rick glances up from his paperwork with a slight frown, looking at Daryl from across the desk. His neck aches, his back is starting to protest from him being hunched over for so long, and he can't actually remember the last time he had anything to drink. He's spent his morning researching everything he'll need to prepare Streak for the Derby. The entry fee isn't the issue; he's got enough money to cover the costs. He's just worried about getting her ready in time. Daryl has proved to be a welcome distraction several times over in the three days since he's started working. Now seems to be no different, since he apparently has a sense for when Rick needs a break on top of his many other skills.

 

“Hmm?”

 

The younger man hands over a sweating glass of water, and Rick tries not to groan when he takes his first sip. There's a hint of something flavoring it, and he's trying to puzzle out what it might be when Daryl must sense his surprise and confusion.

 

“S’got peppermint in it.” He looks out the window and chews his lip, something like embarrassment radiating from him and turning his cheeks faintly pink. Rick pretends not to notice as he leans back in his chair and winces when his lower back pops. The relief that follows make him sigh happily.

 

“What about Iroquois?”

 

“Her first race should be there. Churchill Downs, right? She's gotta break her maiden race _somewhere_. May as well be there, since it'll be th’ first race in th’ prep season.” Daryl rocks back on his heels and tugs on the brim of his Stetson. His pale eyes fix back on Rick again, searching for the answer he hasn't been given. There's a confidence to him when they're alone together, one that he still doesn't show around the others. Rick isn't sure if it's because of whatever it is between them that draws him to the trainer so strongly, or if it's something else.

 

Whatever it may be that makes him seek Daryl out so singularly for most decisions, he's relieved to know that he's not the only one affected. In the few days since the young man has come to live on the ranch and work with the horses, Rick is never out of his peripheral vision for long. Daryl makes sure of it, even if he looks like he's completely involved in whatever it is he's doing at the time.

 

If Rick is being honest with himself - which he often tries to be - he finds it flattering. When he was a police officer, he made it his goal and his job to put others at ease, even if he was there for less than favorable reasons. Despite being retired now, he still tries to exude that same air of reassurance. Considering how much Daryl acts like a wary, beaten stray, it's good to know he at least trusts Rick enough to look to him whenever he needs to.

 

“You gonna work with her today?” Rick finishes off the rest of the water, enjoying the refreshing tingle of the peppermint taste on his tongue. He has no idea where Daryl even got it, or if Beth found leaves somewhere and decided to try making a drink. She loves to come up with new recipes like that, and they usually turn out to be a success.

 

Then again, considering the way the trainer acted when he'd handed the glass over, Rick wonders if Daryl made it himself. He looks down at his empty cup and turns it this way and that, following droplets of water as they roll around the edge. He can feel Daryl's eyes on him again, curious and searching. He knows if he looks up the man will be looking away, so he tries to hold it off for just a little longer.

 

“Yeah. Work with her every day, don’ I?” Daryl doesn't sound mocking or derisive. It's a blunt question, but it's not _mean_. He has a knack for speaking like that, and Rick wonders how how many sensitive hearts he's offended or scandalized in the past. Thankfully, he's got pretty thick skin, and so do most of his people. Rick might have worried about Beth, but she's tougher than others give her credit for.

 

"You do," he agrees with a smile. "I still can't believe how far she's already come, in only three days."

 

Daryl ducks his head, hearing the compliment for what it is. "Thanks," he mutters. Rick smiles at his shyness, finding the way he reacts to any sort of compliment far cuter than a grown man should be able to achieve. Daryl is young, but there's already so much to him that speaks of rough circumstances. To see him get so quiet and startled when anyone compliments him - the way he looks away and tries not to make it seem like a big thing even though it _is_ \- makes Rick want to shower him with praise.

 

"I should be the one thanking you. I can't believe how much of a difference turning her out has made. Lays, too." Rushing through one of the papers and signing it quickly, Rick sets it aside with the others and stands up. He knows Daryl is watching him as he stretches and works out the kinks and aches from sitting on his hard wooden chair for so long. "C'mon," he says once his hands are back on his hips. "I want to see everyone. Been cooped up too long already."

 

"Ya been inside for two hours, Grimes," Daryl huffs. There's a crooked smile hidden in the corners of his mouth, one that makes his eyes sparkle. Rick knows he's being teased, and he knows it's playful. To see the young trainer so relaxed is refreshing and saddening, because Rick knows that'll be gone as soon as they step outside.

 

"So you're tellin' me you'd be able to do paperwork for hours and not have an issue?" he teases back as they head through the mudroom and out the door into the morning heat and humidity. It's promising to be another hot day, but hopefully not hot enough that they can't work with anyone. Rick finds himself lamenting over not having an indoor arena again as they cut across the driveway to the barn. Buck is sprawled out on the forebay, already panting. The heeler still sits up to greet them, his tail wagging and his tongue rolling happily across Rick's bare forearm when he scratches the dog behind his ears.

 

"Fuck that," the trainer snorts once they're out of the sunlight and enveloped in the unique smell only horses have. They breathe in deeply, a thoughtless and simultaneous action. Rick smiles, and while Daryl doesn't copy him in that as well, there's definitely a relaxed air about him as they head toward the tack room.

 

"Hey boys," Maggie calls in greeting from the other side of the stalls. Rick waves, grinning at the young woman.

 

"Mornin', miss Greene. Hershel comin' out soon?"

 

"Gonna need a coggins test for Streak, ain't ya?" She winks at him and turns with a softer smile to Daryl. "You've been doin' damn good work with her, you know that?"

 

"Been hearin' if from a few people," Daryl mutters. He's shifting from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable again from the near-continuous stream of compliments he's already gotten from the group. "Jus' gotta know what they need." He ducks into the tack room after that, leaving Maggie and Rick to smile at each other over their mutual fondness for the reclusive man.

 

"He really has been doin' a fantastic job, Rick," the farm hand says emphatically - as if Rick needs convincing otherwise. She's smiling, bright-eyed and sweet and with a hint of compassion. Maggie Greene is a strong woman, someone who takes no shit while at the same time offering comfort and reassurances to those who might need it. She's been doing her best to engage Daryl and put him at ease, but he's proving a tough nut to crack. The only one he seems even moderately comfortable around is Rick, and even he's still eyed like he's going to lash out during their interactions if Daryl thought he'd say something Rick might not want to hear.

 

"He has been," he agrees. "We still on for tonight?"

 

"Far as I know." Maggie brushes her bangs out of her eyes and leans against the back of Badger's stall, her arms looped through the bars and her expression curious and contemplative. "You gonna ask him?"

 

"Ask me what?" Daryl steps out of the tack room with a halter and lead rope looped over his shoulder. He pauses and looks between them, his shoulders inching up and his eyes wary.

 

Rick smiles to try and put him at ease. "Nothin' bad," he promises. Daryl doesn't look convinced, so he elaborates. "The group all gets together for drinks every Friday night. Where we go depends on whose week it is to pick. This week is Glenn's choice, which could mean anything."

 

"Hey now, the paintball trip was fun," Maggie smiles. "He likes to have a good time. Can you blame him?"

 

"I had fun too," Rick promises. "Even if I did get shot in the ass." He laughs at the memory, and the look of horror he can remember on Bob's face when he'd realized _where_ , exactly, he'd shot his boss. Turning to look at Daryl, he tilts his head just enough to catch those averted blue eyes and nods just slightly when he gets the man's attention.

 

 _You don't have to if you don't want to._ He wants Daryl to know it's not an obligation, not if he's uncomfortable at the thought of being around so many people in a public setting. On the ranch it's different, because they're out in the country and there's only so many people around at one time. In town, in a crowded bar or nightclub (Glenn has picked those too), it's a whole different story.

 

"Can't," Daryl finally mumbles. He's not looking at either of them, and Rick is expecting that to be it. "Got other plans," he adds quietly, the words barely a whisper of air. Rick nods, leaving it at that even though he's already burning with curiosity.

 

As far as Rick can tell, Daryl hasn't left the farm other than to buy cigarettes, and that was only once. He smokes as often as he can get away with while they work, but Rick can't tell if it's a nervous habit or an addiction. When he's not smoking, he doesn't seem to crave the nicotine. Either that, or he's really good at pretending he's fine.

 

What are his plans, though? Is he meeting up with someone? He barely uses his flip phone, from what Rick has noticed. He didn't even know how to find his phone number when Rick asked for it, just in case he needed to get in contact with the trainer.

 

Fingers snap in front of his face, jerking him out of his thoughts. He smiles sheepishly at Daryl, who gives him an odd, searching look. "You okay, man? Kinda zoned out there for a minute."

 

"I'm fine," he nods. "Just lost in thought. That halter for Streak?"

 

"Mhm. Gonna take her up ta th' track t'day. Wanna get her used ta th' turf an' th' gate. When she's comfort'ble here, we'll take her ta a real track an' run her there."

 

"How long you thinkin' that'll be?" Rick leads the way out of the barn, waving goodbye to Maggie as they go. Daryl falls back to walk in his usual spot; no amount of coaxing has gotten him to walk by Rick's side yet. The rancher has to know when to pick and choose his battles, and this isn't one he's going to win any time soon.

 

"Depends how long it takes her ta get used ta th' gate." Daryl shrugs the halter higher onto his shoulder and whistles a sharp, three-note trill. It echoes across the ranch, and Rick sees Slicker's and Shadow's heads jerk up. The colts canter to the front of their pasture and whinny shrilly, their ears up and forward as they wait eagerly.

 

"Not this time, boys," Daryl murmurs as they pass by without stopping. Both of them follow hopefully, stretching their necks out and wriggling their noses in a way that never fails to make Rick smile. Daryl is apparently no different, even if his fond grin is much smaller. " _Later_ ," he promises them. He gives each one a gentle stroke down their long faces before nudging them away. "I need Streak this time. Go back ta grazin', ya big pests."

 

They wander away, snorting and sneezing to show their displeasure. Rick watches them return to grazing, their eyes still fixed on the two men heading toward the gate for Streak's chute.

 

Daryl whistles again, impossibly louder, and Rick watches Streak's large form separate from the small copse of trees she's been grazing in while Lays sleeps in the sun nearby. The filly gallops toward them while her pasture mate rolls up and gets to her feet at a slower pace. She knows it's not her they want, but she trots up to greet them anyway.

 

Streak skids to a stop just inches from the gate, blowing excitedly and dancing in place while she waits. She learned quickly that they're not coming to put her in a stall, so she no longer fights to be haltered. She's not a stupid horse - quite the opposite, in fact. She knows when Daryl whistles for her, treats are sure to follow.

 

"Would you teach me how to make those?" Rick asks as he watches Daryl slip the halter over Streak's nose and ears. He clips the jaw strap in place and gives her a treat; scratching one soft cheek while she crunches through it. "What flavor today?"

 

"Carrot. Might wanna back up."

 

Rick does so, offering Lays one of his own store-bought treats when she comes over to nose at his shoulder. She takes it with a quiet snort, watching Daryl swing the gate open and lead Streak out while she eats. Patting her sweat-damp neck, Rick smiles at her.

 

"I know it's not as good, but he'll just have to show me how to make the _good_ ones, won't he?"

 

Lays nudges him a little harder, looking for more, and he playfully pushes her head away, trying to remember the way he's seen Daryl do it so many times already. "None of that, mare. Don't be like Begger."

 

"Comin'?" Daryl calls over his shoulder. Rick pats Lays one more time and hurries to catch up. The dark chestnut whinnies loudly, watching them lead her pasture mate away and kicking at the gate unhappily. Streak whinnies back, but she's focused on the round pens. When they walk past them, she tosses her head and snorts.

 

"Don' ya worry yer pretty head, filly," Daryl huffs. "Yer gonna get yer run. Just ain't gonna be there." He clucks his tongue and she settles somewhat, walking at his shoulder and nickering quietly to the trainer. He hums back, the two of them moving together like they've had months to familiarize themselves with one another.

 

Watching them, Rick takes in the new relaxation Streak has. She's not fighting to get ahead of them. She's not dancing nervously or struggling for more line. Daryl doesn't even look like he's holding the lead rope very tightly. It's hanging from one hand, his fingers curled loosely and relaxed - like he's completely unconcerned about the filly at his side trying to bolt. It's a show of trust none of the others would allow, if they had to lead the black horse anywhere. With Daryl, it's completely natural. He trusts the horses more than he would trust a person; definitely faster than he would trust a human. That much is obvious.

 

Rick's home track is on the other side of East pasture, a good distance from the fences so as not to disrupt the ones turned out or distract whoever he's working with. He remembers paving down that area and building the home gate as well as the low fences - the time and frustration he went into the project with, and the overwhelming satisfaction when it was done and he got to see Shadow run the track to test it out.

 

The home track is about half the size of an official race track, but it has served its purpose well enough despite the fact that none of his horses have raced under his colors. Streak will be the first, and he's eager to see what she can really do once she's given the room to go all out.

 

"Are we putting a saddle on her yet?" he asks as they walk her down the gap between East pasture and West. There are no horses in West yet. Rick keeps his charges in the pastures they love, because they're closer to home and the routine seems to keep them happy.

 

Daryl eyes the empty expanse of West pasture, running an appraising eye over the rich green grasses and the shade of the willow trees. He seems to like what he sees; he glances at Rick and answers the question with a quick shake of his head.

 

"Get her used ta th' gate, get her used ta a saddle an' rider, then try an' run her that way. I don' wanna overwhelm her too much at once."

 

"So why not wait until she accepts a saddle and rider before trying the gate?" He tilts his head with a frown, trying to understand Daryl's method. He doesn't have a problem with it, he's just not sure why the other way wouldn't work easier.

 

The trainer shrugs a shoulder and clicks sharply at Streak when Badger trots up to the fence line and begins to follow them. Business plods along behind him, nickering at her daughter curiously.

 

"You wanna run th' risk of her freakin' with a saddle an' gettin' herself caught on somethin'? Or throwin' a rider on her back th' first time in th' gate?"

 

That is the last thing Rick wants, so he nods and motions toward the end of the dirt track as it comes into view. "The gate is at the other end. This is the best way to get there, though. How do you want to start this?"

 

"By lettin' her get used ta th' track. Ain't as big as one'a them official ones, but th' turns are close enough ta give her an idea. Once she's used ta everythin', maybe we can run her against Lays; see how she does with a bit'a competition."

 

"You think Lays will give her a challenge?" Rick climbs the fence to open the gate for Daryl and Streak. He's expecting the man to turn toward the homemade starting gate, but Daryl follows the curve of the track away instead. Streak's head is up, her ears straining forward and quivering as she looks around. She's never been to the track before, and Rick can see her nervous energy. He also sees the way Daryl nudges up against her briefly in a show of comfort. It seems to help, because she settles with a snort, but there's still tension twitching across her haunches. She knows they're here for something, she's just not sure what.

 

"I think havin' th' challenge will do Lays good, too," Daryl says over his shoulder. Swinging a leg over the fence, Rick climbs down on the inside and latches the gate before hurrying after the trainer and his filly.

 

"How so?" When Streak spooks at his sudden appearance, he croons softly to her and runs his hand across her heaving flank. She calms at his touch, walking between them with her massive head swinging this way and that to take in her surroundings.

 

"Ya remember Seabiscuit?" Daryl hugs the outer curve of the track, keeping Streak with him. By now, the filly would probably follow him even if he wasn't using a lead rope. The amount of progress he's made with her still manages to astound Rick every time he turns around and sees her trailing after the trainer like a puppy. She's still got an attitude; he can see it in her every day. She hasn't lost her fire in the slightest. It's just being molded by an expert hand until the right moment.

 

"That little horse with the big rider? Yeah, I remember him."

 

"They used ta run him against faster horses ta boost their confidence. Got t' the point he wouldn' even try, 'til someone saw what he had ta offer an' gave him a shot. Think it'll be like that wit' Lays. 'Cept with her, I think the competition will fire her up, not break 'er down. In a long-distance race, she might even beat this'un." Daryl pats Streak's thick neck and clucks his tongue as he starts walking a little faster. She moves with him flawlessly, her hooves thudding against the soil as she trots slowly to keep up with the trainer. She whinnies excitedly, her dark eyes bright, and Rick has to smile at her perpetual eagerness.

 

By the time they make it to the gate, it's clear that the filly is more than ready to run. When she sees the foreign metal and wood, though, she stops and blows out a hard breath, her head jerking up and down before she nudges at Daryl's chest hard enough to make him stumble.

 

"Whoa now, girl. It ain't gonna bite," the trainer croons as he braces himself in case she tries to knock him over again. She blows hard against the front of his plaid shirt, her eyes fixed on the starting gate as she noses at him again. A carrot treat appears in one calloused palm, and Rick watches the way Streak takes it with soft lips even despite her nervousness.

 

Against his better judgement, he lets his eyes trail up Daryl's strong forearms to his tanned biceps and his broad shoulders. He has yet to see the younger man wear a shirt with the sleeves intact unless it was an overshirt, and those never stayed on for long. Considering how hot it's been so far, he's not that surprised. It does pose a bit of a problem though, for Rick at least.

 

The younger man is incredibly fit and toned. Whether it's from the days filled with manual labor or the weight of the crossbow he'd mentioned owning - and the game he probably catches with the weapon - Rick isn't entirely sure. Regardless, the trainer carries his muscles very well, and Rick feels his mouth go a little dry when he catches the gleam of sweat on those strong arms.

 

Daryl glances at him, his pale eyes questioning. Rick smiles and holds his hand out for a treat. "How can I help?"

 

Three are dropped in his palm. He can already smell the carrot even before he brings them up to his nose to breathe in. He can see the oats and other ingredients - can see and smell the molasses holding it all together - and it makes him smile wider.

 

"Would you teach me how to make these?" he asks a second time. He's not sure if Daryl didn't hear him the first time around, or if he'd ignored the question deliberately. Now, with the trainer looking directly at him, he waits for an answer.

 

Something like discomfort crosses Daryl's face and he looks away, breaking the intensity of their stare and leaving Rick searching to reestablish the connection. "S'easy enough ta do," he mumbles evasively. The next words are spoken so quietly he almost doesn't hear them at all. "Ain't gotta try so hard, Rick. Ain't goin' nowhere. You made sure'a that."

 

Frowning, Rick steps around to the front of Streak, putting himself between her and the gate. She looks at him curiously, whuffling and nudging at his chest. He offers her a treat, smiling when her whiskers tickle his palm as she takes it gently. Like this, with Daryl against the fence and Streak between him and open space, he has no choice but to look at Rick. He looks wary again, like he's a stray ready to bite if any sudden movement is made, and it breaks Rick's heart.

 

"Is that what you think this is?" he asks softly. "I'm only askin' because I'm lookin' for ways to _keep_ you?" He might be offended if he didn't have an idea of what kind of background Daryl came from. He's probably used to something much different than what he'd found in Dale's stables, and what he's found here. He's waiting for the guillotine to fall, but it's not going to happen.

 

Those pale, captivating eyes watch him from beneath the protective shield of lashes and bangs; the brim of Daryl's Stetson pulled down so low it's a wonder he can see at all. "You kinda made sure I wasn't goin' nowhere else," he points out needlessly. "Dunno where th' fuck else I was gonna find that startin' wage 'round here."

 

"You are free to negotiate different wages if you'd like," Rick offers. He continues before the other man can open his mouth again. "Daryl, in two hours, you did more with Streak than any of my employees have been able to do in almost _two_ _years_. If you've done _this_ already-" He motions to Streak, who is standing calmly and looking around their section of the track with interest. "I can't wait to see what you can do when you're given _months_. I know a good thing when I see it. Yes, I purposefully offered what I did to tempt you. I'm not gonna deny it. If you don't want it, though, we can figure something else out."

 

"Let's see what she's got in her," the trainer says gruffly. Rick nods, understanding that the topic of conversation needs to shift or else Daryl's going to escape by just climbing over the fence and running, regardless of Rick and his filly caging the man in. Stepping away, he slips the rest of the treats into his pocket and climbs the fence himself to watch and see what Daryl is planning to do.

 

At first, it looks like all the man wants to do is walk Streak back and forth several feet from the starting gate. She's watching it closely, snorting and sneezing as she eyes it like it's a predator trying to stalk her. Daryl clucks and clicks his tongue, crooning to the wary filly and offering pieces of treats only when she's calmer.

 

It reminds Rick a lot of when he'd trained Buck. Daryl uses the treats as rewards the same way Rick did when he was teaching the heeler his commands. It seems to be working, from what he can see. It makes him burn with curiosity as he watches the pair move closer to the gate inch by inch.

 

"Did Monty ever use treats?" he wonders aloud. Daryl doesn't look at him, but he knows the trainer is watching. He's always watching.

 

"Nah, not really. I jus' wan'ed ta give th' beasts a li'l bit of incentive ta learn faster. Rewards work just as well as they do with dogs. Plus, they're good for 'em. Don' see th' harm in it."

 

Daryl unclips Streak's lead and keeps walking. Her ears strain forward, her head raising, but she follows him. Her hooves kick up plumes of dust, her tail flicking as she dances eagerly. She knows something is coming, and Rick can't help but smile as he watches the filly. Her eyes are bright, her nostrils flaring, and she snorts in excitement.

 

When Daryl swings the farthest gate open, Rick watches Streak spook. She jerks back several steps, and he thinks she's going to rear and bolt, but Daryl clucks at her and shifts slightly closer, and she settles with another snort. With a second cluck, she spins. Her hindquarters pivot, her hooves churning up the track, and she rips up clods of dirt when she takes off in the opposite direction. Rick watches her go, looking at Daryl to see what he's doing.

 

The trainer leans back against the fence, a cigarette already between his lips and his head tipped forward to light it. Rick watches the end burn, his eyes hungrily following the way Daryl sucks in the smoke and holds it in his lungs for a moment. He tilts his head back, his eyes closed in bliss, and Rick licks his lips when the man blows out the opaque cloud. It hovers for a moment before the wind pulls it away, dispersing on the breeze and leaving nothing but the scent to linger.

 

Glancing past Daryl, he sees Streak and feels his breath catch sharply. The filly is completely extended, from the tip of her nose to the end of her tail. Her long legs are eating up the distance, her hooves slamming against the dirt and her powerful muscles coiling and releasing as she practically flies down the opposite side of the track. If he didn't hear the thunder of her steps, he would think she _was_ flying. She's nothing but a blur, her speed unchecked and every inch of her radiating with the beauty and freedom of her breed.

 

There is _nothing_ that compares to this, not for Rick. There is no sight more awe-inspiring and captivating to him than a horse running. Nothing compares to the powerhouse of a Thoroughbred, or the wild ferocity of a mustang. He's yet to find anything that even comes close. Streak is the most incredible horse he's ever seen, and she hasn't even reached her full potential yet.

 

Daryl is watching her too. His pale eyes are entranced, his face open in a way it's never been before as they watch through the starting gates as Streak turns the curve and gallops toward the finish line. The trainer looks mesmerized, his cigarette apparently forgotten about and left to burn down slowly at the corner of his mouth. In a bold move, Rick reaches over and takes it, and he sees those eyes dart his way curiously with no move made to stop him.

 

Daryl watches him inhale from the cigarette and exhale the smoke out above them before flicking the filter to scatter the ashes. It's been awhile since he's enjoyed a cigarette. He's missed the taste; he's missed the familiar burn and the buzz of the nicotine when it hits his system. Having Daryl's eyes on him like this is new, but only because he sees something there that neither of them want to try and name yet. Not so soon.

 

As one, they turn to look at Streak again; watching her speed up just slightly as she comes up to the chalked finish line. For a second, as she passes it and keeps going, Rick doesn't think she's going to stop. Even from so far away though, he can see the gleam in her eyes. It's something clever and something wicked, something that would make Devil On Earth proud if he were here to see his daughter now.

 

Out of nowhere, Daryl whistles sharply. It startles Rick, who is never expecting something so loud to come from the normally quiet man. Streak finally checks her speed, slowing in a swirling cloud of dirt and dust. She whinnies in response to the man, throwing up her head and screaming her joy to the cloudless sky before she turns and runs back the way she'd come.

 

"You ain't gonna have no damn problem with her," Daryl rasps. His voice is rough and low, like there's still wisps of smoke clinging in his lungs to make his speech rough and smoky. It's enough to make heat tingle through Rick, and he clears his throat before offering the cigarette back to the trainer. Their fingers brush when Daryl takes it back, heat sparking between them, and Rick is almost grateful when Streak trots around the curve of the track and slows to a walk.

 

"That's not usually how a horse is run on a track, is it?" he asks. He knows it's not, but Daryl has had a method to everything he's done, and now should be no different.

 

"Nah. When we really get her started, it ain't gonna be," the younger man agrees. "This was just ta give her a feel for it. Wanted ta run out some'a her energy, too. Now that she's done that, I wanna see how she is with th' gate. C'mon."

 

Streak stops and waits for Daryl to clip the lead line back to her halter, her black coat impossibly darker from sweat and her dark eyes gleaming with something Rick can only describe as happiness.

 

"A'right, little devil," the trainer croons, bringing her gaze back to him. Streak's ears swivel forward, her attention focused solely on the man holding her. Daryl pats her shoulder and strokes down her side.

 

"Let's get ya ready for th' big leagues."

 

\---

 

"Daryl!" Maggie calls out as she hurries across the driveway toward them. Daryl freezes, his head tilted down and his mouth thinning before he licks his lips nervously. Rick shifts just slightly, putting himself between the wary trainer and his enthusiastic farm hand. He senses the gratefulness more than he sees it, with his back to Daryl.

 

"Evenin', Maggie," Rick says pleasantly. Streak nickers curiously, her hot breath blowing against the back of Rick's shirt as she turns her head to look at Maggie like they are. The woman is slowing down, her eagerness dimming to something more appropriate with someone as introverted as Daryl has proven to be.

 

"How did it go?" she asks eagerly, her bright eyes darting between the two of them. Her hands are in her pockets, her body language relaxed and open. Rick recognizes what she's doing, because he does it himself - especially where Daryl is concerned. Whether the trainer realizes it or not, he never says.

 

"She doesn't much care for it yet, but we'll get there." Shaking his head, Rick smiles with fond exasperation as he turns to pat Streak's nose. She nudges against his palm, wanting more contact, and his heart warms as he sees again just how much progress she's already made with Daryl here to work with her. "We almost got her in one of the end ones, before she decided it wasn't gonna happen."

 

"She'll get there," Daryl murmurs from the other side of the filly. Rick smiles at him and watches the way those pale eyes widen slightly before Daryl ducks to hide behind the brim of his Stetson the way he so often does. "Give her a little bit longer an' she'll be tryin' ta sleep in one," he adds gruffly.

 

Rick chuckles. "I look forward to seeing it. For now, let's get everyone fed for the evening, and we can all get washed up for tonight."

 

"T’night?" The trainer looks to him, frowning slightly and chewing his lip. "Ain't gonna be there, remember?"

 

"Yeah, I remember. You've got plans, right?" Rick wishes he could ask what kinds of plans Daryl has, but it's clearly something the younger man doesn't want to talk about. Just mentioning it now darkens his eyes in a way Rick hates to see. That much sorrow and anger doesn't belong stewing in anyone, much less Daryl. Daryl should always be as light and as happy as he is when he's around the horses. To see him shutting down like this leaves a bitter taste in Rick's mouth.

 

"Yeah," Daryl agrees quietly. "Plans."

 

Streak nudges him, whuffling in a way that makes Rick think she's worried. It's enough to make Daryl smile just slightly, and he pats the side of her neck.

 

"Y'all go on ahead. M'gonna turn her out an' grab Lays an' th' boys. I'll send 'em your way. Sound good?"

 

"Sounds fine to me." Reaching out slowly, Rick brushes his fingers against Daryl's white-knuckled hand. He's holding onto the lead rope so tightly it has to be painful for him, but he almost doesn't seem to notice.

 

Once he has those captivating eyes focused on him, he smiles just slightly and tries to convey what he can't say out loud, not with Maggie standing right there and watching them with unabashed curiosity.

 

_It's okay. No one's going to be mad. Do this at your pace._

 

After a second, Daryl gives him a tiny nod. Rick nods back and steps out of the way so the trainer can turn and lead Streak to the pasture. He's talking to her quietly, saying something Rick can't hear, and he doesn't try to. He leaves the man to his moment of privacy and turns to meet Maggie's sparkling eyes and her mischievous grin. "What?"

 

"Don't you _what_ me, Rick Grimes," she says with a cheeky smile. "I guess Carol was right."

 

"Leave it alone, Maggie," he replies quietly with a shake of his head. "My private life is my own business. Don't meddle."

 

"You know we won't," the young woman promises as she falls into step beside him. Unlike Daryl, she doesn't hang back. She walks shoulder to shoulder with him, her stride matching his and her confidence too humble to be arrogant. She's got a good head on her shoulders, and so does her sister. They're both hard workers, and they love the horses in the same way that Rick and Daryl do. To the Greene family, they're not just animals meant to be worked without reprieve. The horses are as much their passion as every other person on Rick's payroll.

 

No one has a connection with them quite like Daryl, though. When he's with them, it's nothing short of _magical_. They respond to the smallest of twitches from the trainer. They follow every silent command with eagerness and trust, knowing somehow that the man with the pale blue eyes will never lead them into a situation that will end with pain.

 

"Rick?"

 

"Hmm?"

 

"Did you hear what I said?" Maggie laughs and shakes her head at him, knowing where his mind was and thankfully not commenting on it.

 

"No," Rick admits, rubbing the back of his head and ignoring the way his fingers catch in some of his tangled curls. "Sorry, I was distracted."

 

"Oh, I know you were." A wicked smile lights up Maggie's pretty face, but there's nothing malicious about her. She's too kind-hearted to be anything but playful. "Daddy wants to know if Monday is too soon to come out. I know you'll need Streak's coggins test closer to time, but he was thinking about doing an overall wellness check for everyone."

 

"That sounds great, Maggie. I'll give him a call later."

 

"Don't worry about it. I'll go get the feedin' started and call him to let him know. You come along with the horses when you're ready, okay?"

 

She's gone before he can say anything, so Rick turns to Streak's pasture and watches Daryl push the gate open and reach in to clip the rope to Lays' halter before leading her out. Streak is already gone, probably down by the creek getting a drink or rolling in the grass. Rick can't see her from where he's standing, but he's already familiar with her after-training routine.

 

When Daryl turns and sees him, the man offers a nod that Rick returns with a smile. He clucks his tongue and watches the trainer drape the lead rope over Lays' back before giving the mare a nudge on her flank.

 

Rick has never had one of his horses try to escape. Even Streak stays on the property when she manages to get loose. Although there's no one to lead Lays to him, she doesn't need to be guided. She walks right across the gravel until her large head is pressed to his chest, her velvety nose blowing an affectionate plume of air against his belly.

 

"Hey, girl," he croons as he pets her forelock and scratches up under her jaw - her two favorite things. Sure enough, she sighs and nudges against him a little harder, seeking more affection.

 

"Ya got no ability ta say no, do ya?" Daryl snorts as he joins them. Shadow and Slicker stop behind him and wait patiently, even though they are well aware of the time. They're probably eager to get their dinners, but they don't try to head toward the barn on their own.

 

"I'm a terrible man, I know," Rick laughs as he rolls his eyes playfully. "I spoil them too much."

 

"You said it, not me." Daryl offers him a shy grin, a cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth again. Rick can't help but look at it, his skin tingling from the memory of the nicotine they'd shared just a little while ago. Daryl sees him looking, and his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows.

 

Rick doesn't ask, but he doesn't have to. He watches one hand come up, trembling fingers slipping around the filter to hold it while Daryl takes another long drag. He keeps the smoke in his lungs, the same way he always does, and offers the cigarette without a word.

 

Rick takes it and lips at the filter, imagining he can feel the faint moisture from it having been in Daryl's mouth. He suppresses his shiver at the thought and pulls deeply, his eyes fluttering closed as he enjoys the bitter, smoky flavor.

 

After a minute, his eyes reopen slowly, and he sees Daryl watching him with an intensity that makes his skin burn. A wisp of smoke escapes from the corner of Rick's mouth, drifting down the side of the cigarette before curling up and dissipating above his head. An opaque tendril leaks from Daryl's mouth too, rising to brush against his nose and follow the curve of it.

 

They exhale simultaneously, the two clouds mingling and hanging in the air between them. Rick almost can't see Daryl through it, but he knows those pale eyes are as focused on him as his are on the younger man. When the smoke clears, there's a heat in Daryl's eyes that matches the faint flush on his cheeks before he drops his head and hides from Rick's dark eyes.

 

"Sorry I can't come t'night," he whispers. His voice is low and rough from the smoke. It reminds Rick of a saying he'd heard once, a long while ago: _whiskey over gravel._ It's certainly fitting, and the thought warms him with the sun until a bead of sweat wells in the cupid's bow of his upper lip.

 

He licks it away and takes one last drag from the cigarette before handing it back to Daryl. Their fingers bump, but this time the touch lingers just a beat longer than it had the last time. Rick exhales his lungful of smoke on a sigh, and the warm roughness of Daryl's fingers leaves when the trainer takes his cigarette back and slips it into his mouth.

 

"There are plenty of other opportunities," Rick promises as he watches the younger man take a slightly shaky pull from the cigarette. He waits a moment to drop his hand away; tilts his head back slightly and blows perfect smoke rings while Rick watches and _hungers_.

 

"Sure," Daryl agrees before pinching off the cherry tip and grinding it into the gravel beneath his boot. The filter goes into his pocket - he has never once dropped them on the ground that Rick has seen. "C'mon, bet these big babies are gettin' impatient. Let's get 'em fed an' get Lays back out, 'fore y'all gotta go out on th' town."

 

"You know you're welcome to join us, Daryl. They'll be happy to have you along," Rick tries one last time. He knows what the answer will be even before Daryl shakes his head. Reaching out, he grips one strong, bare bicep and tries to ignore the heat of the trainer's skin beneath his palm. "Hey," he murmurs, dipping his head and searching until those blue eyes meet his. They're dark again, but it's for an entirely different reason this time. "You don't owe us anything, Daryl. This isn't an obligation, believe me. If you don't want to, no one will be angry. Okay?"

 

"It ain't that," Daryl mutters. He grabs Rick's wrist with his free hand and squeezes. There's turmoil in his eyes again; sorrow and helpless frustration when he looks past Rick and stares at the barn. The horses nicker quietly, and he seems to draw strength from them. "S'just somethin' I gotta do. Ain't tryin' ta blow y'all off. I just... I gotta do this."

 

"I understand." Rick squeezes Daryl's bicep and smiles at the answering squeeze around his wrist before they let go of each other. "C'mon, let's get the beasts fed and settled for the night. If you don't wanna talk to anyone, you don't have to."

 

"Christ, anyone ever told ya b'fore that you're way too good at this?" Daryl smiles at him, looking more relaxed than he had a minute before. Rick smiles back.

 

"Heard it a few times while I was on the force," he admits as he takes Lays' lead rope and starts walking toward the barn. The mare follows eagerly, snorting in anticipation. She whinnies loudly, and two or three of the others answer back.

 

"You were a cop?" Daryl asks as he takes his usual place off to the left and a step behind Rick. Shadow and Slicker walk calmly behind the trainer, waiting patiently for what they know is coming.

 

"For fifteen years, yeah." Rick glances back and nods. "I was pretty good at my job."

 

"Why'd ya leave?"

 

Rick feels the faint ache of his scar, and he tries not to grimace. "Got shot. It was pretty bad. Ended up in a coma for a few months. Had to retire afterwards."

 

"Shit. Fuck, m'sorry. Shouldn't have asked." Daryl sounds ready to berate himself for not knowing, and Rick stops to turn and look at him. Lays huffs, but she waits.

 

"Why are you sorry? It's not like you knew. It was years ago, Daryl. Besides, retiring from being a police officer left me free to pursue my passion for these guys." He pats Lays' shoulder and presses his cheek against her neck. She dips her head like she's hugging him, and Rick is rewarded by the softness that blooms in Daryl's eyes and gentles the harsh twist of his lips.

 

"Glad ya found 'em," he whispers. There's something about his expression, something that reminds Rick of longing, but it's gone before he can analyze it fully. "We're stallin', and they're hungry," the trainer adds quickly. "Plus, y'all gotta get ready for yer night out. Better get a move on."

 

"Yeah," Rick agrees distractedly. He's still too busy looking at Daryl, watching every little shift in his expression and seeing the way he can't seem to look away for very long, no matter how hard he tries. His eyes always find their way back to Rick, like he's searching for something - or maybe wishing for something.

 

They get the horses inside, much to their delight. Their scoops of sweet feed are already waiting for them, their stalls clean and their hay thrown down. Glenn is checking the water buckets with Maggie, the two of them talking quietly to each other and giggling. Occasionally they'll steal kisses or squeeze each other's hands.

 

Daryl watches them from the corner of his eye, although Rick's pretty sure he's the only one that notices. The trainer stops when he notices Rick watching him, deliberately keeping his gaze fixed on the ground until Carol and Abraham arrive. The woman is quick to make her way toward Daryl, the two of them talking quietly while Rick stands by Lays' stall and waits for her to finish her feed.

 

"Be careful, Pookie," he hears Carol say softly. "I know you're still hoping, but just... take care of yourself first, okay, sweetie?"

 

"Ya know I will. Been doin' it long enough by now. Gotta take care'a him too, though, Carol. Ya know that," Daryl whispers back. Rick doesn't mean to overhear them, but it happens. It leaves him even more curious, but he's trying to stay resolute in his decision not to ask until Daryl volunteers the information. It's not his place.

 

Lays paws at her stall door, breaking him out of his musings. Smiling, he clucks his tongue at the mare and opens the door for her.

 

"C'mon, girl," he croons. She follows him eagerly, staying with him despite not being clipped to a rope. Gravel crunches beneath them as he leads her across the driveway. Buck jumps off the porch and lopes over to join them, keeping the mare close to Rick even though it isn't necessary.

 

After he lets Lays into the pasture, he leans against the fence with Buck sitting beside him and watches the horse trot down the chute until she reaches the pasture and joins Streak where the black filly is grazing.

 

"What do you think, Buck?" he murmurs. Looking down at the heeler, he smiles and scratches his dog behind his ears, comforted by the familiar routine between them when Buck licks his wrist and wags his tail. A short chuff from the canine makes him laugh, and he rubs one soft, furry ear between his fingers.

 

"Yeah, I know I'm in trouble. Guess there's nothin' I can do about it now, though, except wait and see."

 

"Rick!" Glenn calls from the barn. "Are you gonna get ready or what?"

 

"Yeah, give me ten minutes," Rick calls back. As he walks toward the house, he sees Daryl walking his bike from around the back of the barn, where he's taken to keeping it so it's out of the way. Their eyes meet briefly, understanding and something else passing between them before Daryl kicks the bike on and throttles it.

 

The roar of it echoes across the ranch, the sound of the engine vibrating through Rick. He closes his eyes for a moment, reveling in the power of the bike and how easily Daryl handles it. When he looks again, Daryl is straddling the motorcycle and looking at him.

 

They exchange a glance, pale skies and roiling storms passing an understanding between them before Daryl heads down the long driveway and Rick turns toward the house to get ready for whatever the night may bring.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like it's that time again, y'all!
> 
> As always, a huge shoutout ta katytheinspiredworkaholic for workin' her magic on this. And thanks ta every single person who has left comments and kudos. Y'all blow me away constantly with your praise and exuberance. I'm so glad everyone is liking this so much.
> 
> Just a quick note - I do not believe there is an actual Brummer, Georgia. For reasons, though, there is in this chapter, for a little while at least. >.>
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to the horse I based Badger off of - a sweet old gelding who died unexpectedly on Saturday. He's also where I got the name for Slicker. Run wild and free through those sky fields, Slick. M'gonna miss ya, buddy. <3
> 
> Enjoy, guys

"Where's Daryl?" Maggie asks as soon as Rick sits down at the table the group has already claimed. He'd let them go on ahead with the promise to catch up, but he hadn't said one way or another if Daryl would be coming, even though he knew the trainer wouldn't be.

 

"He's got plans," he replies as he reaches for a beer.

 

"It's been a month, man. Is that really the only excuse he's got?" Glenn complains quietly. Rick frowns and leans back in his seat, trying not to let his hands tighten around the neck of his bottle.

 

"It's the only excuse he needs, Glenn," he replies a little more sharply than he means to. It doesn't go unnoticed, and the rest of the table - aside from Maggie and Carol - all turn to give him startled, curious looks.

 

"You gotta admit that it's a bit redundant by now, Grimes," Abraham points out from around the mouth of his beer. "Four weeks in a row, and Dixon's best excuse is ‘Got plans’, man. Unless he's pourin' the Bisquick and we ain't met the lady yet, there's gotta be a reason he ditches us every week."

 

" _Whatever_ his reason may be, I'm sure it's a good one." Carol says it softly, but with an intensity that quiets her husband and makes Glenn's mouth snap shut. They look guilty, glancing around like Daryl is going to melt out of the nearby shadows with an accusing glare.

 

Rick shares a look with Carol, offering the woman a faint smile that she returns with a warmth and gratefulness he doesn't miss. She's the only one who knows where exactly Daryl goes every week, but she refuses to say anything about it. Rick still remembers the conversation he'd accidentally overheard just a month ago between Carol and the trainer. It makes no more sense now than it had then, but it's also none of his business.

 

"Y’all know he's shy," Maggie puts in. She gives Glenn a scolding look, and her boyfriend ducks his head sheepishly. "He still ain't fully warmed up to us. What makes you think he'll be comfortable out in a place like this?" She gestures with her beer, and Rick glances around the bar they've decided to relax in tonight.

 

Abraham has picked his favorite saloon-style dive in Brummer, which is the closest town - if it can even be called that - to the ranch. The bar's lighting is dim, the music is loud, and the makeshift dance floor is packed with bodies of people dancing and grinding badly along to whatever country music is pumping from the tinny, low-quality speakers. He generally enjoys most of the artists that are playing, but the sloppy courting rituals going on in his periphery he could happily do without.

 

It does make him wonder if Daryl ever dances. Crowds have never been the trainer's style, that much is clear, but what about when he's by himself? Has he ever let loose enough to sway along to some twangy melody, or let the heavy beat of a faster tempo stir up his blood? What would he look like lost in the music, his pale eyes hooded and his skin glistening with sweat that isn't from the sun?

 

Swallowing thickly, Rick drinks the rest of his beer a little too fast and sets the glass down harder than he means to. Bob glances at him, his eyebrows drawn down in concern. The loud sound startles Beth as well, and she turns away from watching a few of the young, single men dancing by themselves. Apparently they're hoping to attract a partner with their talents, and Beth seems interested enough.

 

"You okay, Rick?" Bob asks quietly. Rick nods, not trusting his voice enough yet to answer verbally. Abraham throws back the rest of his own Coors, slamming the bottle down far harder than necessary and burping loud enough to be heard over the music.

 

"He's damn good with those horses, though," the farrier decides with a thoughtful hum. "Those ginger wraps have done Badger a world of good. I've never seen him walk so nicely on anything else we've tried. The kid knows his shit."

 

"Of course he does," Carol agrees. There's something in her tone, something proud and motherly. Her smile is wistful, and a touch sad, so Rick leans against the table and catches her eye; tilting his head curiously and hoping for a little more in-depth information. Before she can say anything, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

 

"Rick Grimes!"

 

Trying not to look disappointed by the interruption, Rick turns to smile at Dale. He rises to greet the man, grasping the offered forearm and gripping one strong shoulder. "It's been a while, Dale. How are you?" he asks warmly. It's always good to see the older man, no matter the circumstances. Dale has a joyful lightness to him that nothing seems to diminish. It was refreshing to Rick after everything he'd been through when he turned up at Horvath Stables and met the trainer and horse racer for the first time.

 

"I'm doing very well. I heard you entered your filly in the Iroquois Stakes. How's she been doing for you?" The question isn't probing or suspicious. Mind Your Business was Dale's horse first, after all. He's genuinely interested in the progress her filly has made after the struggle Streak gave Rick when she was growing up. Hell, he's the one who helped Rick find a trainer, even though Rick still can't quite fathom what made Dale send Daryl his way in the first place.

 

Not that he's complaining at all, for many reasons. Still, he's curious, so he decides to test the waters.

 

"Dale, what the hell possessed you to give up Daryl Dixon?" he laughs. Dale laughs too, the corners of his kind eyes scrunching up. He looks good, which makes Rick happy. He knows the man lost his wife a year or two before they met, and it's taken him a long time to heal to the point he's at now.

 

"So he worked his magic for you too, huh?" The older man's laughter fades away, though his smile remains strong. One calloused hand finds Rick's shoulder and squeezes. "I'm so glad to hear he's made so much progress with your horses. I assume Devil's spawn isn't the only one he's worked a miracle with?"

 

"God, no. Seriously, Dale, why'd you let a goldmine like that walk out your door?" Rick asks a little more insistently. They lower their voices and move away from the others, who leave them to their private conversation. Dropping his voice a little lower, Rick pushes for more. "You haven't done me wrong yet. You've been a good friend. Our horses will be racing against each other, though. Why send me someone with that kind of skill?"

 

"Rick, relax." Dale grips his other shoulder, looking at him with open, gentle eyes. "Daryl has a gift unlike any I've seen outside of videos, but my stables weren't where he needed to be. You've worked with him for a month. You see how he is." When Rick nods, Dale nods too. "He's not great with people, and some of my employees weren't good with him. That boy has been through a lot, Rick. He needed something different. He needed an atmosphere where he could grow and come into himself. He needed something I couldn't offer him - though God, do I wish I could have."

 

"Do you know _anything_ about his past?" Rick murmurs. The brightness in Dale's eyes dims a little.

 

"I only know what I've put together from watching him interact with others. Someone wasn't kind to him, that much is clear. Daryl doesn't have any family aside from his brother anymore, and even that-"

 

"Brother?" Rick cuts in. "He has a brother?"

 

Dale frowns. "He hasn't told you?"

 

"No. I know a little bit about his mother, but he's never said anything about a brother." Rick chews his lips and tries to think back through every conversation they've had in the past month - which is a hell of a lot. Once Daryl grew more comfortable around Rick, the interactions between them became a lot easier. The trainer has even started becoming more open around the others, which can only be a good thing.

 

Watching Daryl bloom into a man who is unafraid to smile more - who laughs with Bob and quietly teases Glenn and Maggie when he finds them hidden away in little nooks and crannies - warms Rick's heart and makes it ache in a way he hasn't felt in a long time. He has thoroughly enjoyed seeing the trainer grow more comfortable around the rest of them. His sense of humor has begun to show, and his quick-witted retorts are enough to leave Rick gasping for breath.

 

The first time Daryl had a comeback for Abraham, spoken quietly but with more sass than any of them had been expecting, the farrier had looked shocked for a moment before he burst into laughter.

 

Daryl has a way about him, something that's more than his talent with horses. He's so ready to believe he's worthless compared to others. He still twitches when anyone moves too fast or throws something near him, whether it's an empty can of beer or one of Buck's tennis balls. Despite that, there's a quiet strength in him - something that simmers just beneath the surface that he doesn't seem to realize is there. The closest he gets to tapping into that potential is when he's with the horses. Around them, he comes alive with a confidence that is lacking during any interaction he has with another person besides Rick.

 

Dale is watching him, looking sheepish and concerned in tandem. "It's not really my place," he hedges. Rick tries not to look too pleading as he draws the man a little farther into the closest shadowed corner.

 

"Please, Dale. If it helps me to help him in some way, if it helps me to _understand_ , I want to know. He's so..." He trails off with a shake of his head, because there aren't enough words in the world to describe Daryl the way Rick sees him. Dale must understand, because he smiles and squeezes Rick's shoulders reassuringly.

 

"He's an incredible young man," he agrees. The smile lingers for a moment before something more severe settles across the older man's expression. "The story needs to come from Daryl; it's not my life, or my past. I will say this, though. Daryl has an older brother named Merle. He's been in a coma for the past two years or so. He's the only real family Daryl has, and he visits him every week. I'm assuming that's where he is now, since I don't see him."

 

Rick nods. "He's told us for the past month he's 'got plans' every Friday. We've been wondering where he's been going, but no one has really gotten the courage to ask yet. I had no idea he had a brother."

 

"There's a lot about Daryl that no one has any idea about, trust me," Dale murmurs. "If and when you ask him, just be careful, Rick. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that it's sensitive territory you'll be treading across."

 

"Thank you, Dale. If Streak gets scratched from the Stakes, I guess you'll know why."

 

They share a quiet chuckle and spend a little while longer catching up before Dale says his farewells and Rick rejoins the group. They give him curious looks, but no one pushes for information. The only one who gives him a lingering look is Carol, and he knows that she knows.

 

The rest of the evening passes in a warm, contented haze. None of them are anywhere close to drunk - Rick is barely even tipsy. It's good to just take a few hours to sit back and laugh every week; to forget the approaching deadline of the Stakes for a little while and watch Glenn and Maggie dance near Beth and the boy she's been watching all night. He wishes Daryl was with them. He wishes the trainer was sitting close beside him, their legs pressed together and their elbows knocking as they drink and maybe share a cigarette. It's become a habit between them in the last month, although Rick doesn't always steal them when Daryl works beside him with a bitter-scented cloud trailing behind them and the familiar cherry-tipped filter at the corner of his mouth.

 

There's been a lot of moments just between them in the past month. A lot of lingering looks that range from hungry and longing to apprehensive and nervous. Rick _knows_ Daryl is interested, and he's just as interested in the trainer, but there's something holding them back from taking that first step into something new and wonderful.

 

The rest of the group hasn't missed the looks, or the way Rick and Daryl move together without any words spoken between them. It's become common for Glenn or Abraham to come across the two of them working Streak and communicating through quick looks or the slightest tilts of their heads. Carol watches them too, and Rick senses a motherly instinct in her where the young trainer is concerned. She's very protective of Daryl, but she doesn't smother him. Not that Rick has seen.

 

While they're saying their goodbyes out in the parking lot, Carol rests her hand gently on his arm. Her blue eyes are bright in the glow thrown by the lot lights, something gentle and hopeful in them when Rick turns to her with a smile.

 

"You're driving home, I assume?" he asks playfully. Abraham isn't drunk, but the farrier has definitely had more than the rest of them. His cheeks are red, his eyes are glassy, and his laughter is just a little too loud when he throws an arm around Glenn's shoulder and pulls the groom against his broad side.

 

"Of course I am. We still have to pick up Sophia, too." Carol pats his arm, and then squeezes gently. "You're good for him, Rick," she says quietly, and Rick doesn't try to pretend he doesn't know who she's talking about. "He's good for you, too. You've been a lot happier since he came to the ranch. Just be careful, please. Both of you have had your troubles; they've shaped you into the men you are now. They've been very different circumstances, though."

 

Rick draws Carol into a hug and presses a kiss against her cheek. "The last thing I ever want is to hurt him, Carol," he swears quietly. She nods against his shoulder. "When he's ready, I'll be whatever he needs me to be."

 

"Oh, Rick," the pixie-like woman chuckles. She steps back and wipes at her eyes, giving him a strong, proud smile. "You already are, trust me."

 

To hear it from Carol - who knows Daryl better than any of them, thanks to the friendship they shared before he ever set foot on the ranch - makes Rick feel like he's won something far better than just her approval. Carol is giving him permission for so much more without saying a single thing. He recognizes the twinkle in her eyes, and he can't help but smile back.

 

"Get some sleep, Carol." He hugs her again, and she returns it with surprising strength for someone who looks so frail. That's the beauty of Carol Ford, though. No one ever suspects the power she holds close to her chest, not until it's too late for them. Carol may be sweet and kind-hearted, but there's a fire in her that is capable of burning everything in its path.

 

"You tryin' to steal my woman, Grimes?" Abraham slurs playfully at him. Rick laughs and grabs onto the redhead before he hits the pavement, patting his friend on the shoulder and bracing himself for Abraham's return swat.

 

"Wouldn't dream of it, friend," he chuckles. "She's all yours, I promise."

 

"We gotta get you a pretty thing, too. 'Bout time ya made yourself available to the ladies lookin' for that special somethin'. You're prime real estate, boy-o. Hell, if I batted the other way, I might try that turf myself."

 

"Good night, Abraham," Rick says with a snort. He shares one final glance with Carol, an understanding passing between them, before Rick turns toward his truck and Carol leads her husband to the Jeep to pour him in the passenger's seat.

 

"Good night, all of you," she calls across the parking lot while expertly fending off Abraham's wandering hands.

 

"Good night, Mrs. Ford," Rick replies with a smile. The others chip in with various farewells before Rick starts up the truck and points them toward home.

 

The ride back to the ranch is quiet. Bob is almost asleep in the passenger seat. Glenn and Maggie are curled up against one back window while Beth dozes with her forehead pressed against the cool glass of the other one. Sasha is in the bed of the truck, probably watching the stars twinkle in the cloudless night sky.

 

Out in the middle of the Georgia wilds, there is no light pollution to take away from the beauty of the world around them. Rick isn't even playing the radio. He's got it turned off and his window rolled down so the sounds of the nocturnal creatures can reach him over the rumble of the truck's engine. He drums his fingers against the door, listening to the cicadas and thinking about getting home to his bed.

 

As always, his thoughts inevitably wind their way back to Daryl. He wonders what happened to the trainer's brother. What did Dale say his name is? Merle? What could have happened to put him in a coma for so long? What kind of impact must he have had on Daryl's life, for his younger brother to go every week without fail - from what Rick had seen - and spend time with someone who couldn't answer back?

 

Rick lets his thoughts cycle through their repetitive loops as he drives through the thick woods between the town and his ranch. He chews his lip and lets his mind wander to the memory of Daryl's elation earlier that day when Streak had stood silent and patient as they put the saddle on her and guided her into the gate. She'd barely put up any resistance aside from her token moment of stubbornness. Rick had honestly thought he was about to cry when Daryl shut the rear gates behind the filly and she'd waited impatiently until they finally let her free.

 

Daryl looks so much more beautiful when he's happy. Rick hadn't thought it was possible for the trainer to become even more breathtaking than he's already been, but Daryl continues to surprise and astound him at every turn. It's as refreshing as a dip in a cool stream on a hot day, because no matter what, the young man is never boring.

 

The forests open up to dusty fields and lush green grass. Rick can already see the dark lines of his pasture fences, and he smiles at the thought of getting home and checking everyone for one last time before heading to bed himself.

 

As he turns from the smooth, paved main road and onto the beginning of his long, gravel driveway, he glances at the others to make sure they're mostly undisturbed. Bob has fallen asleep, and he barely twitches at the sudden bump and jostle as Rick traverses down the long drive. He can just see the warm glow of the living room lights, but Daryl's apartment is dark.

 

Glenn rouses himself with effort once Rick parks in front of the house. Beth drags herself out of the truck and tries to rub the sleep from her eyes while Maggie relies on Glenn to stay upright.

 

"Go get some sleep, you guys. It has to be almost midnight." Rick checks his watch and nods slowly. "Yeah. Sleep is in order for all of you. The horses can wait an extra hour if they need to tomorrow."

 

"G’night, Rick," Bob mumbles. The groomer pats him on the shoulder and stumbles toward the bed of the truck, where Sasha is slowly climbing over the side.

 

"Good night, everyone," Rick murmurs to all of them as he turns toward the barn to go and check on everyone. He's surprised Buck hasn't showed up to accompany him, but he figures the heeler is exhausted after his own long day of keeping up with everyone.

 

Stepping into the barn, he breathes in deeply and smiles at the unique scent of horses that envelopes him. The stalls are quiet, the horses long since bedded down for the night. They're taking advantage of the cooler evening and the subsequent breeze blowing down the aisle, letting it cool them after the heat of the day.

 

Rick stops by each stall to check on everyone, and when he gets to Badger's stall he finds himself pausing. The gelding is looking at him with eyes that are glittering in the meager light; dark and fathomless and speaking a language he has yet to master. Leaning closer, he holds out one hand and tries to nicker quietly the way Daryl manages to so naturally. Badger's ears flick forward, his velvet-soft nose pressing between the gap in the bars. His nostrils flare, and he echoes Rick's noise with a deeper, bass-like sound before he sways back and turns to offer his shoulder.

 

Unsure of what else to do, Rick turns as well and reaches through the bars to give the old gelding a few scratches. He feels the powerful muscles bunch and twitch beneath his nails, Badger's strength no less formidable despite his age.

 

"You're so good to me, old friend," he says quietly and with a smile. Badger snorts and leans into the affection for a moment before he steps out of reach. Taking that as his cue, Rick moves along and sees to the rest of his charges. The only other one awake seems to be Business, and the mare sighs sweetly at him but doesn't get up from where she's laid down at the back of her stall. Clucking his tongue at her, he pats at the bars before turning to leave the horses to their rest.

 

Back out in the night air, Rick pauses to look up at the sky. Half the moon hangs heavy and fat behind the house, part of it obscured by the roof. All around it, stretched for miles and miles, the night sky is blanketed with twinkling stars. He can pick out a few of the constellations, but most of the patterns and groupings mean nothing to him. He's trying to find Orion, wondering which part of the sky he guards, when movement at the corner of his eye catches his attention.

 

Buck is running back and forth in front of the gate that leads to Streak's pasture. The heeler is low to the ground, his ears high and alert and his shoulders rolling smoothly beneath his thick coat as he lopes from one side to the other. He doesn't even seem to notice Rick, too focused on whatever it is that has his attention as he stares intently down the chute.

 

"Buck?" Rick moves closer slowly, dropping a hand to his side where he always keeps a small pocket knife. It's hanging from one of his belt loops for easy access for when he needs to cut twine from bales or any other dozens of tasks life on a ranch requires, but it's also for situations where he might need to defend himself.

 

Coyotes are prevalent in his part of Georgia, and he's come across them on the farm once or twice. One or two wouldn't be brave enough to take on one of his horses, and Streak wouldn't be silent if there was one close to her, but a pack would be a different matter. Buck would be raising an alarm of his own too in that case, instead of just pacing and whining quietly. He doesn't respond to Rick's attempts at getting his attention - he's too focused on whatever else it is that's keeping him from settling down for the night.

 

After a moment of thought, Rick unlatches the gate and swings it open. As soon as the gap is wide enough, Buck darts through and trots briskly down the grassy chute. Curious and worried, he follows the heeler after shutting the gate again. He does his best to keep up, even though he knows there's no real point in trying. Rick can only go so fast in the dark, and Buck outpaces him quickly.

 

The night around him is alive with the buzz and chatter of cicadas and the squeaks of bats as they hunt. Mosquitos flutter around him, looking for somewhere to land and feed, and Rick swats them away unconsciously as he strains to keep Buck in his sights. The heeler is clearly on a mission, and he doesn't stop or even slow down as he turns into the pasture. It takes another moment for Rick to get there as well, and he steps out into the vast expanse of grasses and wildflowers with trepidation and wary anticipation.

 

Lays lifts her head and whuffles at him, her body language relaxed from what he can see in the dark. The mare is totally unconcerned, dropping her muzzle to graze again once she's said her hellos. Rick frowns, trying to figure out what has Buck so unsettled when the horses are obviously unconcerned. It's not until he turns to look at the dog that he understands what's going on.

 

Streak is watching Rick when he looks for her. She's laying with her feet tucked up against her body and her head up as she curls protectively around the lump pressed up against her belly. Buck is laying beside that lump now, panting happily and wagging his tail. It takes a moment of squinting before Rick recognizes the familiar Stetson and the wild hair beneath it and he realizes he's looking at Daryl.

 

The trainer is curled up on his side, pressed tightly against Streak for warmth and comfort. His head is pillowed on her front leg, one arm thrown across her side and his face tucked into the crook of her shoulder while he sleeps. The hat has been knocked slightly askew, probably from one or both of them shifting around. Rick can't see most of Daryl's face, but he sees his sleep-relaxed mouth and the way his lips are just slightly parted as he slumbers.

 

Rick approaches as silently as he can, desperate to see more and also well aware of what could happen if he startles Daryl awake. There's a black shape on the grass just close enough to be in reach if Daryl needs it. Moonlight glints off of thin, metal parts, and Rick stares for a moment before he recognizes the bright green and white fletching of a bolt.

 

When did Daryl bring his crossbow from Dale's stables? For that matter, why does he have it out in the pasture with the horses? Was there actually a coyote prowling around too close to the fences? Was Daryl watching for it, ready and waiting to fire a warning shot, before he fell asleep?

 

Moving with exaggerated slowness, Rick crouches just out of reach and watches the trainer sleep. He's desperate to reach out and take off the Stetson so he can see Daryl's face better. The night is plenty warm enough, but his fingers twitch from the desire to find a blanket and cover the other man so he won't catch a chill.

 

Streak watches Rick, her eyes pure black and shining in the darkness. She looks like some kind of unholy demon, too large and powerful to fear a mortal like him. When she turns to Daryl though, there is nothing but gentleness in the way she sniffs at him and presses her nose against his shoulder to check on the man. Aside from the slightest shift, Daryl doesn't even wake up. His hat moves a little more, and Rick gets a better view of his slack face with nothing but the moon and the stars to illuminate his features.

 

This new vulnerability makes Rick's breath catch, and he tries to stifle the noise behind his hand. He's seen Daryl react to less when he's been dozing on a rare moment of peace; the last thing he wants is to disturb the trainer when he's actually sleeping. It doesn't seem to matter though, because aside from the smallest tilt of Daryl's head, he doesn't move.

 

With the moon as his only source of light, Rick can see just how peaceful and young Daryl looks when he's sleeping. There's a tiredness that hangs around him, but it's not as present as when he's awake. His face is relaxed, his brow smooth. The breeze tugs at his bangs, spreading them in dark tendrils across his tan skin. It looks silky and soft, and Rick's fingers itch from the desire to reach out and pet through the man's hair to see if it really is as downy-soft as it looks.

 

It comes to him in a slow crawl, bubbling up from the depths of his belly and tingling through every inch of him. It reminds him of sinking into a hot bath; slowly immersing himself until every inch of him is covered and he feels like he's holding his breath. When his lungs are burning, he gasps softly and feels the air rush into his lungs with the comprehension he's known for a while but has never let himself actually think about.

 

Daryl is beautiful in the moonlight, his mouth softened and his eyelashes kissing his cheeks the way Rick feels almost desperate to right now. He wants to brush his lips over every inch of the trainer's face - he longs to kiss those lips and feel Daryl kiss him back. As quiet as the younger man is, Rick has seen his fire on more than one occasion. He knows Daryl's passion will be incredible to witness, and he wants to be the one to see it unleashed. He wants to be the one to unleash it, and the hunger that simmers in him roars to life in a way that is so overwhelming it's almost frightening.

 

Pressing the back of a hand against his mouth, Rick breathes the scent of dirt and horses on his own skin and stands up slowly. He motions for Buck and turns to leave Daryl to his sleep, knowing he needs to find his own bed soon or else he'll be useless when morning comes and it's time for them to begin their day.

 

It takes a bit of coaxing for his heeler to willingly leave Daryl's side, but Buck finally lumbers to his feet and presses one last nuzzle against Streak's muzzle before he lopes to Rick. They leave the pasture together, both of them longing to stay for different reasons. For Rick, it's not an option right now. If Daryl wakes up and sees Rick sitting and watching him - because Rick knows that's exactly what he'd do - there's no telling how the trainer will react. The bets are high that it wouldn't be good, though.

 

The gate latch releases a little louder than Rick is expecting, and he looks quickly down toward the pasture. From what he can tell, Daryl hasn't moved at all, although Lays has joined Streak and the two horses are bracketing the trainer with their much larger bodies.

 

To see them so obviously protective of the man warms Rick's heart down to the depths and makes the longing and the hunger burn stronger. His interest from day one is fast becoming infatuation, the fragile petals of affection blooming into a heavy flower that puts all other buds to shame. It's already promising to be something much more, but for now, Rick is content to take it slow.

 

Men like Daryl have not had easy lives. Just from the way the trainer reacts to any sign of friendly affection, it's easy to tell that it's not something he's used to. Whether he and his brother had a good relationship, Rick doesn't know. The way he still flinches from sudden movements tells more than he probably hopes.

 

Rick wants to change that. He wants to see Daryl smile all the time. He wants to give him reasons to laugh and love and glow brighter than the sun. If Daryl is willing, Rick will lay the world and his heart at the trainer's feet. He'll give every part of himself and treasure whatever bits of Daryl that he's given in return.

 

He wants to show Daryl exactly how wonderful love can be, even though Rick's own knowledge isn't the greatest. When he and Lori were younger, the two of them were almost perfect. As the years passed though, perfection became indifference and love turned to strained bitterness. At the very end, when Rick opened his eyes after months of being comatose and saw the way things had shifted, his own bitterness became pain at the thought of his life being ripped to shreds.

 

When it comes down to it, divorcing Lori was the best thing he ever did for himself. Whether she's happy being Shane’s wife, he doesn't know, and if he's completely honest with himself, he doesn't _care_. That poison is gone from his system. The horses healed him, and he's come out on the other side better for it.

 

With Daryl, he knows it could be different and _wonderful_ between them. The younger man just has to let himself have it. Even if it takes months, Rick is willing to wait. Daryl will come into this on his own terms or not at all. Rick won't push him, but maybe he can test the waters and see. Too much and he'll chase Daryl away, he knows he will. It will take patience, and that is something that Rick has plenty of. Streak is testament to that.

 

As he sheds his clothes and pulls on his pajamas, Rick can't help but glance toward the window that shows East paddock. It's empty right now, since everyone is turned in but Lays and Streak. He can't see their pasture from his room, but he can see the moon and the shimmering stars, and he smiles at the thought of Daryl curled up safely between Rick's horses, bathed in the same light that Rick is looking at right now.

 

"C'mon, Buck, let's get some sleep," he murmurs tiredly. The heeler is already sprawled at the foot of the bed, his dark eyes closed and his paws twitching as he drifts off to sleep. Rick smiles and pats between the dog's ears on his way by; smiling wider when Buck stirs enough to lick his wrist before drifting off to sleep again.

 

Slipping beneath the covers, Rick rolls onto his side and glances toward the window again. He pillows his head on the crook of one folded arm; his eyes heavy with oncoming sleep as he looks for the moon again. He watches it, wanting to hold onto this one private moment for as long as he can, until sleep embraces him and draws him down into comforting darkness.

 

\--

 

Morning comes to Rick in a sluggish crawl. He inches into wakefulness with gritty eyes and a sore throat, although he knows it's from drinking and forgetting to open his window before he fell asleep. Air conditioning is a wonderful thing, but his system makes the air so dry he's amazed his nose doesn't start to bleed sometimes. At least he's not waking up covered in sweat like he used to when he had his first apartment. That's always a plus.

 

His alarm is shrieking at him, and probably has been for a while. When he lifts himself up enough to see the glowing numbers, he immediately groans and shoves his face back into his pillow. Considering that it's well after five in the morning, he's amazed no one has tried to come in and turn the piercing wail off. He must have been sleeping incredibly deep if it's taken him this long to respond to it even subconsciously.

 

Saturdays on the ranch are a little more laid back than the rest of the week, but there's still plenty of work to be done. Stalls need to be mucked, the horses need to be fed and turned out; he's almost positive he remembers Abraham saying something last night about a fence line needing to be fixed.

 

Buck isn't in the room when Rick finally pushes himself into a sitting position. His side aches and his shoulder is numb, so he rotates it while he's trying to blink the last stubborn wisps of sleep from his eyes. He's in the middle of a yawn when someone knocks on the door.

 

"Yeah?" he sighs through the last of it. He ignores the way his jaw cracks as he forces himself to his feet and fights the sudden surge of dizziness from standing too fast.

 

The door cracks open, letting Buck in, and Rick is in the middle of wondering who shut it in the first place when it opens the rest of the way and Daryl appears in the doorway.

 

Out of everyone it could have been, the trainer is the last one Rick was expecting to see. He isn't even wearing a shirt yet, so when Daryl sees his bare chest and his eyes are inevitably drawn to the scar, Rick tries not to cross his arms defensively.

 

"Mornin'," Daryl mumbles. He's missing his Stetson this morning, and his bangs are pushed back from his forehead. His hair looks clean for once, but the rest of him is covered in a thin layer of dirt and green streaks from the grass.

 

It takes Rick a moment to realize he's staring just like Daryl is, and he tries to recover his manners enough to look away. Daryl doesn't make it easy, not with the way his cheeks are slightly pink; not with how he's started chewing his lips as his eyes dart from one part of Rick's chest to another before tracing back to the scar again.

 

"Mornin'," Rick echoes quietly. "Comin' to make sure I'm still alive? I guess I missed breakfast."

 

"You an' half th' others," the trainer snorts. He seems to shake himself out of his daze and finally manages to meet Rick's intense stare, but he can't hold it for long. He looks away too quickly, his cheeks turning an even darker shade of red, and Rick tries to tilt his head to catch those pale eyes again. "Made somethin' for when y'all drag yer sorry asses outta bed," Daryl adds as he starts to turn away. Rick hasn't even realized how close they've been drifting to each other until Daryl reestablishes the space. When his broad shoulders fill the doorway again, he pauses and glances back at Rick.

 

"Sleep okay?" The trainer asks quietly; like he's afraid speaking too loudly will shatter whatever is crackling in the air between them.

 

"As well as I figured I would, after stumbling to bed around two or so," Rick replies as he moves toward his drawers to find a shirt. He can't see Daryl's expression, but he can feel the weight of those eyes burning the grooves between his shoulder blades.

 

"Took ya that long ta make it ta bed? Th' hell were ya doin' all that time?"

 

 _Watching you sleep and realizing just how gone on you I already am,_ Rick wisely doesn't say. He pulls on a dark t-shirt and turns to smile sheepishly at Daryl. He sees the man's pale blue eyes flash, but the expression that crosses those captivating features is gone before he can really analyze it.

 

"I was spending some time with Badger, and then I had to wrangle Buck away from the fences. I wonder if there were coyotes lurking around last night. He seemed pretty determined to get into Streak's pasture for some reason. I didn't hear her or Lays kickin' up a fuss though, so I dragged him away."

 

"Might'a been some," Daryl agrees quietly. He looks slightly evasive, and Rick kindly doesn't call him out on it. "I got my crossbow from Dale's, though. If any show up, I'll give 'em a reason ta stay gone."

 

"I'm sure my horses will thank you for it." Rick waits for a moment, but Daryl shows no sign of trying to leave again. As much as he enjoys the trainer's company, Rick knows that they're nowhere near close enough yet for Daryl to be comfortable with watching him change the rest of the way.

 

Clearing his throat slightly, he gestures at his pajama pants. "I'll finish up and be down in a minute. Sound good?"

 

"Yeah. Better get yourself ready. We're puttin' Streak on th' trailer t'day. Gotta get her ta a real track an' get her used ta it. Wanna get a saddle on her an' someone in it, first, otherwise there ain't no point."

 

"I was thinkin' of takin' Lays out on a trail again soon," Rick muses. "Might as well do it today. I know a nice place out through the woods. Real nice spot by a lake. She likes it there."

 

"Sounds nice. Get some food an' meet me out by th' barn?" Daryl looks at him as he asks, waiting for his decision. From anyone else, it would have been a statement, but the trainer often frames his words to Rick as a question - as if he's asking for approval rather than outright demanding agreement. No matter how talented and knowledgeable as he is, it never seems to go to his head. Rick likes that a lot.

 

"Sounds good to me," he agrees readily. It's worth it for the shy, beautiful smile that softens Daryl's lips and lights up his eyes. He leans a little closer, but sways back just as quickly and ducks his head. He's gone before Rick can ask if everything is alright, and it leaves the rancher wondering what might have just happened if Daryl's nerves hadn't gotten the best of him.

 

There's no one in the kitchen when Rick gets there, but there's more than enough food for the others whenever they decide to stumble in. Rick takes a moment to stop and stare, awed by the sheer amount of food Daryl has managed to prepare all by himself.

 

There's heaping piles of eggs and bacon, which is their usual go-to breakfast dish. It looks like there's diced peppers and ham in the eggs though, which isn't common at all. There's also a plate of thickly-sliced pieces of ham, and a large bowl full of what looks and smells like hashbrowns with cheese melting overtop. Rick sees a steaming pot of what he _knows_ is sausage gravy, despite not having had it in years. Next to the pot is a plate piled high with biscuits that look like they were made from scratch.

 

" _Jesus_ ," he whispers. He's a little dumbfounded by the amount of food piled on the table and taking up the countertops. When did Daryl even have time to make all of this in the hours between when Rick found him sleeping in the pasture and when Daryl knocked on his bedroom door? The only way it could have been done is if he'd woken up around the same time Rick went to bed.

 

Grabbing a plate, he takes a little bit of everything and tries not to moan indecently when he takes his first bite into a biscuit. It's perfectly light and flaky, and still warm. Rick eats it in two bites, and makes his way through the rest of his plate with the manners of a caveman. He's still licking the gravy from his fingers when Glenn and Maggie stagger in.

 

"Whoa," Glenn gasps as soon as he sees what's laid out and ready for them. "Who made all of this?"

 

"Daryl," Rick replies around his fingers. He sucks the last one clean and pops a perfectly-cooked slice of bacon into his mouth. The salty crunch and meaty flavor melts across his tastebuds, and he stifles another moan now that he's not alone. The last thing he needs is the lovebirds picking on him for making sexual noises over his breakfast, even if he feels it's entirely warranted.

 

"I didn't even know Daryl _could_ cook," Glenn adds as he shoves a spoonful of eggs into his mouth. Rick watches the way the groom's eyes widen and wonders if he had the same awestruck look on his face.

 

"He makes his own horse treats. I just didn't realize he could cook like _this_." Setting his plate in the sink, Rick wipes his mouth clean and brushes crumbs off the front of his shirt. "Wait until you try the biscuits," he advises. He hears Glenn's muffled exclamation on his way out the door, and his smile lasts all the way across the driveway to where Daryl is waiting on the forebay with a cigarette between his fingers and one booted heel propped against the wall. The relaxed slouch highlights his profiles in the morning light, shadowing his thighs from the bend of his knee and lengthening the line of his throat when he tips his head back to blow smoke rings toward the sky. Rick is mesmerized by the bob of his Adam's apple and the broad span of his shoulders against the stone wall of the barn.

 

"You may have just damned yourself to cooking duty, I hope you know that," he calls across the distance that still separates them. Daryl dips his head just slightly, watching Rick approach from beneath the brim of his Stetson. His eyes are in shadow, partly hidden by his bangs, but his mouth is lit by a yellow-orange glow, and Rick doesn't miss the smile that curls across it, even if it's gone by the time he's close enough to accept the still-burning cigarette Daryl offers.

 

"Feel more human now, I gather?" The trainer huffs as he watches Rick take his first long, slow inhale. The smoke burns his throat and lungs, but he enjoys it; savors it before letting his head fall back so he can exhale. He hears Daryl swallow thickly, but the younger man is perfectly stoic and calm when Rick meets his eyes again.

 

His blood burns at the heavy weight of those pale eyes on him. He feels his pulse thump quickly at his throat, and the buzz of the nicotine mixes with the swell of desire until Rick feels like he's flying. He wants to close the distance between them and taste the bitter smoke on Daryl's lips. He wants to push that firm body back against the wall and feel Daryl arch against him. He wants those big, calloused hands in his hair, and he wants to knock that Stetson to the dusty concrete and tangle his fingers in Daryl's hair to keep him close.

 

Rick _wants_ , but he smiles instead and hands the cigarette back for Daryl to finish it off. "Think you'd be interested in joinin' me for a ride?" he asks. His voice is a bit low and rough, partly from the early-morning cigarette and partly from the desire still swirling in his veins. It's enough to make Daryl's eyes snap to his, wide and searching as a blush spills across the man's cheeks unchecked.

 

"Sure," the trainer mutters. "Jus' wanna get Streak saddled up, firs'."

 

"Think she'll handle a rider?" Looking into the barn, Rick smiles at the muzzles he can see. As if the horses know they have his attention, they start to whinny and snort in succession, letting it be known in no uncertain terms that they are eager for their breakfasts now that Rick has had his.

 

"Think that filly'll handle any damn thing ya throw at her," Daryl snorts. "Jus' gotta give her a chance ta prove it. You start with th' choir here. I'll get th' girls in. Sound good?"

 

"Sounds just fine to me." Rick risks taking a step closer, turning so his back is to the wall. He presses his shoulder against Daryl's and feels the heat emanating from the trainer. It warms his blood all over again, and when he turns his head he sees Daryl's face just a few inches from his own. They share the same air for a minute, both of them tense with anticipation. Daryl licks his lips, his eyes going dark and hooded, and Rick feels his throat go dry.

 

"Here's to a peaceful ride," he whispers hoarsely. Daryl makes a soft noise in the back of his throat.

 

"May the wind beneath their tails dance us forward on the journey safely," the trainer agrees. Rick has never heard that saying before, and he likes it. He smiles before reluctantly putting distance between them. Daryl watches him go, something like longing burning in his pale eyes, but he doesn't try to call Rick back.

 

"Guess we should begin the day," Rick murmurs. Daryl finally looks away and nods. He pushes himself off the wall and sets his foot back of the ground; pushing his hands into his pockets and letting his Stetson hide his face again.

 

"Guess we should," he agrees. "I'll go get th' girls."

 

Rick watches him walk away, smiling when Buck trots over from the porch to join him. Daryl's shoulders relax, and he scratches the heeler between his ears. He doesn't immediately shove the hand pack into his pocket; leaves it hanging by his side instead for Buck to nose at and lick.

 

Once Rick sees the two of them reach the gate to Streak's pasture, where the filly and Lays are already waiting to be brought in for their breakfast, he turns and walks into the barn to start the usual morning routine - much to the delight of his charges.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look, it's Monday again. ouo
> 
> This was once again beta'd by the incredible katytheinspiredworkaholic, so guys, y'all can thank her for makin' this readable and less of a "what the fuck is this guy on" mess.
> 
> Here we go!
> 
> Enjoy, lovelies~

"Are you sure this is going to work?" Rick asks warily. He's watching Streak pace around the edge of the round pen, her nostrils flaring and her hooves slamming against the dirt as she adjusts to the saddle on her back. She looks furious, but considering that she hasn't tried to roll out of her tack yet, Rick is guardedly hopeful. Lays is already saddled up and ready to go. The dark chestnut watches her pasture mate with interest, her head raised and her ears forward.

 

"She jus' ain't used ta so much dressin'," Daryl snorts from where he's sitting on the top rung of the pen, balanced easily on the thin beam and following Streak with just his eyes. "She took ta th' racin' saddle jus' fine. This'un is a bit more bells an' whistles. Heavier, bulkier. She's gotta get used ta it."

 

Streak doesn't look like she's in the mood to _get used_ to anything at this point in time. Rick has faith in Daryl though. How could he not after everything else? If the trainer thinks she'll adjust in a little while, Rick will give him the benefit of the doubt.

 

After another few minutes of watching the filly pace while Lays sighs impatiently, Daryl is proven right yet again. Streak snorts one more time before coming to a stop in front of the trainer and pressing her muzzle against his dirty jeans. She lips at his knee and nickers, the tension making her muscles bunch and twitch finally easing until she's relaxed and waiting for whatever comes next.

 

"Tha's it, little devil," Daryl croons. Rick watches as the man adjusts the filly's forelock and pets her dark face with gentle fingers. "It ain't gon' hurtcha, girl. Yer jus' fine, see?"

 

Rick tenses as Daryl climbs down off the fence, putting himself between Streak and the thick planks of wood. It would have been a deadly endeavor only a month ago, but now the filly just follows Daryl with her head and nudges at his chest. She takes the offered treat with gentle grace, crunching on it while the young man's broad, strong hands stroke down her neck to her shoulders.

 

It's a slow process, but Daryl makes his way back to the saddle and fiddles with it while Rick watches in fascination. Streak doesn't react when the cinch is tugged on, or when the saddle and blanket are adjusted. She has no reaction to Daryl fixing the stirrups other than the swish of her tail.

 

"I still don't know how you manage it," Rick murmurs in awe as he watches Daryl check every piece of tack to make sure it fits properly and is in acceptable condition. Rick would never keep a piece of useless tack laying around - it's just asking for trouble. He still appreciates Daryl's attention to every little detail, and the pride the man takes in making sure the horses are happy and comfortable.

 

"Time," Daryl mumbles as he works. He's climbing the side of the round pen again while Streak stands and waits. "Patience. Trust. Helluva lot'a treats." He chuckles softly at the last part, catching Rick off guard with the soft amusement laced heavily into the sound. As comfortable as Daryl has become around him, he still doesn't laugh much. It's a damn shame, because it's a beautiful thing to hear. It reminds Rick of the wind whispering through tree branches and tugging at his hair - something wild and free that can never be caught or caged.

 

Everything about Daryl constantly reminds Rick of the nature all around them. He's as strong as the oldest pines and as immovable as the mountains that hug the horizon. He can be as playful or as cutting as the winds, and as determined as the rivers that have snaked their way through Georgia for generations.

 

Daryl is as passionate and untamed as a fire, but as gentle as the fragile blossoms that bloom in spring. He is balanced in a way Rick has seldom seen in a person before, and with every moment that passes, he finds himself even more enamored.

 

Pale blue eyes cut toward him curiously, and Rick realizes he's been caught staring again. He wonders what must show on his face in these moments, because Daryl's eyes turn dark and gleam with something that calls to the hunger in Rick. The trainer licks the dust from his thin lips and swallows while Rick watches on, waiting to see what happens.

 

Streak snorts when one of Daryl's long, lean legs swings over her back, but she doesn't bolt. She stands perfectly still, all four hooves planted in the dirt as her head turns to watch the human settling his weight into the saddle. Rick sees her muscles twitch beneath her black coat, but she doesn't buck or rear.

 

"Nothin' ta fear," Daryl rumbles soothingly. It sends flames of heat licking down Rick's spine; dripping into his lower abdomen and flickering across his body in warm waves that makes his fingers curl and his throat go dry the way it only does around the younger man.

 

"You're so fuckin' incredible," he whispers. He means it, from the bottom of his heart. Right now he would love nothing more than to pull Daryl out of the saddle, or ride up beside him, and kiss the trainer until they forget that breathing matters. It's not the first thought like it that he's had, but it's the most intense - his need to be as close to Daryl as possible - has been so far, and it leaves him reeling and breathless as he looks at the trainer. "Seriously, you are."

 

As with every other time, Rick's quiet words of praise leave Daryl visibly startled and scrambling to hide it. His cheeks are a rosy pink, his eyes are wide, and Rick has to smile as Streak reacts to the trainer's sudden surge of emotion by dancing in place and pawing at the ground.

 

"Easy, little devil," Daryl soothes. He leans forward and presses his face against the base of her mane, breathing in her scent and visibly calming as the filly settles beneath him. One pale eye watches Rick through the dark strands of his bangs and the shadows thrown by the Stetson Daryl uses as his own personal fortress. Rick meets the guarded walls with gentle reassurance, and the shards of ice fighting to freeze everything over melt away like they were never forming to begin with.

 

"Gotta stop sayin' shit like that," Daryl huffs as he sits upright again. Rick watches his strong legs squeeze Streak's sides, and she reacts with a snort and the jerk of her head. She doesn't buck, or kick, or even drop and try to roll. All she does is follow Daryl's guidance as he urges her forward.

 

"I only say it because it's true," Rick retorts sincerely as he swings the gate open for the two. He doesn't latch it again, because he knows Sasha wants to work with Slicker while they're gone. The jockey had caught up with him while he was gathering Lays' tack and let him know she would be putting the colt through his paces.

 

"Load'a bullshit," he hears the trainer mutter under his breath. Daryl knows Rick heard him, because he won't look at the rancher as he turns Streak's head toward the long driveway and touches her shoulder to still her. Rick can see her ears flicking back as she waits for instruction. He's so awestruck that Lays has to headbutt his shoulder, nearly sending him to the ground, before he gathers himself enough to brace his foot in a stirrup and swing into the saddle.

 

Settling against the sun-warmed leather is like coming home for Rick. All of his worries instantly melt away, evaporated into nothingness by the sun beating down on them. It's definitely a hot day, but the woods will offer plenty of shade and streams to drink from, and he has no plans to run Lays and Streak past what they can handle.

 

"You first?" he offers Daryl; waving a hand to indicate that the lead is his if the trainer wants it. Daryl shakes his head, keeping himself and Streak where they are as they wait for Rick and Lays to go ahead of them.

 

"You know where we're goin'," the younger man points out. "Better if you lead th' way."

 

"All right then," Rick accepts. Beneath the tack, Lays is buzzing with eagerness. It's been too long since she's been off the farm, and she knows that when Rick does take her out, she's usually allowed to run to her heart's content. It takes her a while to warm up, but once she finds her stride she'll go for miles without stopping, purely because of that wild, instinctive joy she shares with the untamed mustangs of the Midwest.

 

Horses are meant to run. They are not meant for lives lived out in stalls, waiting for the next race. Rick has never caged his animals like that, even though by turning them out to run and frolic, his chances of one of them injuring themselves by accident is much higher. He can't stand to see them shut away, and maybe one day that will come back to bite him in the ass, but for now his methods have worked perfectly fine.

 

Buck races down the fence line ahead of them, barking eagerly as he sees them off. Rick has to laugh at the heeler's antics, and Buck pants happily at him when they finally reach the end and the gravel blends into smooth, paved asphalt. The dog sits and watches them go, his eyes bright and his tail wagging.

 

Lays steps onto the road without hesitation, the clang of her shoes against the asphalt making Rick shiver with anticipation. The mare knows she'll be given the reins soon enough, and there's already definitely more pep in her step as Rick turns her toward the forest with a quiet cluck of his tongue.

 

Behind them, Streak whinnies when she encounters the road for the first time, although she doesn't balk from the new smells like Rick thought she might. When he chances a glance back, he sees Daryl laying forward in the saddle, his chin resting on the proud arch of Streak's neck. He's talking to her softly, the reins ignored where he's looped them over the horn of his saddle. His hands are running across the filly's dark coat instead; fingers reaching up to tangle in her mane before combing through it and scratching at her shoulders. She trusts him enough to follow Lays, and the farther from home they get, the braver the filly becomes.

 

Once the turn onto the farm has faded from sight, even though the fence line is still off to his left, Rick presses his heels into Lays' side just enough to get her attention. The mare moves smoothly from a walk to a trot, her head up and her ears forward - her eyes glued to the treeline that keeps slowly coming closer. The beat of her hooves and Streak's are out of sync enough to tell Rick that Daryl is still walking the filly rather than letting her run the way she so desperately wants to. She isn't even fighting him, from what Rick can see and hear. That's the most amazing thing of all.

 

"How was your night?" he asks once Daryl brings Streak up to walk her side by side with Lays. The trainer glances at him before shrugging and looking toward the forest again.

 

"Was fine. Ain't much memorable 'bout it. Sounds like y'all had more fun." He doesn't look angry or sad, but there's a wistful haze over his eyes. There's also something Rick recognizes as resignation. Dale's words from last night ring clearly through his head, and he can't help but wonder again just how close Daryl and his brother must have been, for Daryl to go every single week without fail to sit at the bedside of a comatose man.

 

Lori and Shane had done that for him. Some pieces he remembers like they were dreams; mostly the faces of his ex-wife and ex-best friend hovering over his hospital bed. He can't remember anything that they said, and sometimes their features were so fuzzy and blurred that he's not entirely sure he wasn't dreaming. There had been concern, he remembers. It had morphed quickly to resignation in his muddled consciousness, although time passes differently in those states of awareness. For Rick, it had been a long dream full of mostly darkness. For Lori and Shane, it had been over three months of watching Rick lay unmoving while slowly losing hope that he would ever wake up.

 

When he thinks of it like that, he can understand why they turned to one another for comfort. The part of him that feels the most betrayal from it still reminds Rick of the vows he and Lori made before their family and an invisible, absent God - in sickness and in health, no matter what.

 

Warm, calloused fingers grip his shoulder, bringing Rick out of his thoughts. The world becomes light again, sound bleeding into the silence that had seemed to deafen him as he'd drifted through his memories. He turns to meet Daryl's concerned eyes and sees the way the younger man has tipped his hat back so he can see better.

 

"Ya went away," Daryl explains quietly. He still hasn't let go of Rick, and the contact is comforting. He finds himself leaning into it, searching for more, and Daryl adjusts his grip and brings the horses to a halt with a low whistle. They immediately drop their heads to graze, and Rick smiles.

 

"I'm alright. Just remembering something."

 

"Shouldn't get too lost in th' bad," the trainer murmurs. "If ya go too deep, ya forget ta look for th' sun."

 

"That is one thing I will never forget to do," Rick promises. He looks at Daryl as he says it, willing the man to understand something that was already established between them before Daryl's first week at the ranch was over. Daryl meets his gaze without hesitation or need to hide, his pale eyes looking like crystals with the way the sunlight catches in them. Rick sways across the distance between them, turning his upper body and ignoring the way his scar tingles.

 

Daryl's breath catches, his eyes flickering, and Rick feels both relieved and not when rather than kissing the other man the way he's been so desperate to do, he presses their foreheads together instead. He feels the short, quick bursts of Daryl's breath against his lips and closes his eyes, willing himself to keep control.

 

"Don't you forget where the sunlight is, either," he whispers fiercely. He cups the nape of Daryl's neck to keep him from leaving, his fingers tangling in the long, dark strands of silky-soft hair. Opening his eyes slowly, he looks at Daryl and sees how open and vulnerable the trainer's eyes are, the swirling blue and dilated pupils begging for too many things to name. "Don't forget you always have a home, Daryl, no matter what."

 

"Ain't had a home in years," Daryl breathes quietly, the words dripping from his lips like he's fighting to hold them back even though he doesn't need to. "Ain't had much'a nothin', ta be honest."

 

"That why you sleep under the stars?" Rick asks. Daryl huffs quietly at the roundabout confession.

 

"I thought that was you," he mutters, but there's no anger in his whisper-soft voice. He's as quiet as the world in the moment before the skies open up for rain to fall, but there's no hint of moisture building in those eyes. They remind Rick of clear summer skies, the color as cloudless and blue as only this corner of Georgia seems to be.

 

"Gave you the room for a reason, Daryl," Rick smiles. Daryl smiles back, smaller and shy buy no less sincere in this private moment between just them.

 

"Always preferred sleepin' outside, even when I had other options." Daryl's fingers dig into his shoulder a little more as the trainer pulls back. Rick keeps his hand in place, but he doesn't force Daryl to stay. He would never try to chain him like that, not when seeing him free and unburdened is so much more beautiful. When the distance gets too wide, he pulls his hand back and gives Daryl his space, even though he knows that's not what either of them what. There's something holding them back yet - or holding Daryl back, at least. Until he decides that he's ready, Rick will wait.

 

"The room is yours to use as you want," he reminds the trainer. "If the horses are better blankets, I'm not going to have a fit. Just stay safe. Please."

 

"Best guard dogs ya ever seen, these girls." Daryl pats Streak's shoulder before reaching over to pet down the length of Lays' neck. They lift their heads and whuffle at him before going back to grazing.

 

"I believe it," Rick chuckles. He pats Lays' shoulder to get her attention, nudging at her with his knees to get her to lift her head. "Ready to move on? Bet they're ready to run."

 

"Rick?"

 

The way Daryl says his name, his voice so soft an uncertain, makes Rick pause immediately and look at the trainer again. Lays goes right back to grazing, drifting along at her own pace with Streak keeping close.

 

"Yeah?" he asks, tipping his head forward and to the side so he can catch Daryl's eyes before he uses his Stetson to hide again. "What's wrong?"

 

"Ya know I ain't blowin' y'all off every week, right?" Daryl eyes him like he's expecting Rick to start shouting. Seeing all the progress they've made seemingly vanish because of one innocent conversation makes Rick's heart ache painfully.

 

"I know, Daryl," he promises. "I also know that when you're ready, you'll tell us. Until then, you do whatever it is you need to do, and we'll wait. We're not going anywhere. Okay?"

 

Daryl chews his lip, looking like he's visibly fighting himself. Rick reaches out before he thinks it through, and the way the younger man flinches away instinctively makes him croon soothingly, the same way Daryl does to relax the horses.

 

"Should get goin'," Daryl finally mutters once he's gathered himself enough to relax. The tension melts away like water rolling off his skin, his eyes clear and cloudless the way Rick privately believes they should always be. "They need ta run, an' I wanna show Streak th' trailer while we still got some daylight."

 

"Alright then." Rick gets Lays' attention one more time, and the mare huffs at being disturbed until Rick presses his knees into her sides and clucks his tongue. He gives her the reins immediately, letting her have her head, and she knows exactly what that means.

 

Streak whinnies triumphantly when Daryl lays low in the saddle and tangles his fingers in her mane. She springs forward without hesitation, the two of them nothing but a blur as they race ahead and rapidly put space between themselves, Rick, and Lays.

 

"Gonna let her show you up like that, sweetheart?" Rick chuckles. Lays neighs, loud and eager, and breaks into a smooth canter that rapidly picks up speed into a gallop. She doesn't try to outpace Streak yet, seemingly content to close the distance between them slowly. She's a horse that's built for endurance, able to run long distances and pace herself to outlast her competition. It makes Rick wonder - not for the first time - how she and Streak would match up in a race that required stamina more than speed. The filly is eager to run, and fast enough to stun onlookers, there's no doubt about that. What if she had to run a long distance, though? Could she do it?

 

It makes Rick think of the Belmont, which is a mile and a half of track. It's a lot for any horse, and Streak has plenty of speed in her, but what about her stamina? If she makes it that far, will the final leg of the Triple Crown Races defeat her the way it has so many others? Or will she blow the world away and do what no filly has ever managed to do before?

 

Daryl whoops suddenly, and it's so unexpected that it snaps Rick from his troubled musings. He looks up and sees the younger man holding onto Streak with nothing but his legs as she loops around almost half a mile ahead and starts to come toward Rick and Lays again. Daryl's head is tipped back, his Stetson blown from its usual perch by the wind whipping past him from how fast Streak is going. His arms are spread out on either side of him, his eyes closed, and the most brilliant smile Rick has ever seen is making the trainer's whole face glow with a radiance that steals Rick's breath and leaves him staring.

 

Daryl has never looked so happy or at home, his mouth dropping open as he lets out another piercing cry. The sound reminds Rick of a hawk. The entire scene makes him think of paintings of Native American warriors running with their horses; man and beast completely in tune with one another as they race across open plains of swaying, knee-high grasses.

 

Streak slows as she and Lays draw closer to each other, both horses breathing heavy from excitement and exertion. Rather than stopping, though, Lays waits until she and Streak are only a few feet apart before lunging forward with a burst of speed that Rick is not expecting. It's his turn to let out a joyful cry as Lays eats up the distance between them and the forest, her body stretched out and streamlined as her powerful hooves thunder across the terrain.

 

Streak rises to the challenge with a fierce whinny, and Rick hears the sound of her hooves ripping up dirt as the filly spins to follow them.

 

Daryl is laughing without restraint as he and Streak quickly catch up. They come alongside Rick and Lays, the two horses snorting and grunting as they push themselves just that little bit more. Rick looks over at Daryl, seeing the wild joy on his face and the sparkle in his eyes. They look at each other, both of them grinning like idiots, and Rick feels his heart soar in a way it hasn't in far too long.

 

Out here, beneath the blazing Georgia sun, with the wind whipping at their cheeks and their laughter mingling with the excited grunts of the horses, Rick feels more at home than he ever had before a bullet ripped through his side and the life he had known for so long shattered into something that could never be repaired. It's still the best thing that ever happened to him, because it gave him this. It gave him pale blue eyes and a shy smile. It gave him a filly as black as coal with a determination unlike anything he's ever seen. Streak has the same fire Rick feels in himself. It's the same fire he sees in Daryl every day. To see them so synchronized without any need for communication or riding crops is like watching a piece of living art.

 

Rick can't imagine anywhere else he'd rather be.

 

\--

 

The stream they end up at is deep enough for the horses to wade into up to their knees, and gentle enough that they don't have to worry about getting dragged by the current. Once Rick and Daryl get their saddles off to give them some time to relax and breathe, they wade right in. Streak dunks her entire face and shakes her head, spraying them with droplets of muddy water. Rick can't help but laugh at the filly while she splashes around. Lays is smart enough to wade upstream to drink, so the water isn't as badly disturbed.

 

"Goofy li'l shit," Daryl snorts. Streak sneezes at him and tosses her head. Rick hides his smile behind his canteen as he takes a drink of his own. "You ain't foolin' no one either, old man," the trainer adds with a pointed look at Rick.

 

"I'm not that much older than you, Daryl," Rick protests. He puts a hint of an obnoxious whine in his tone just to see the way Daryl scoffs and rolls his eyes.

 

"Old enough," the trainer mutters. He's smiling though, and when Rick offers the canteen, Daryl takes it without comment and drinks deeply. He doesn't even wipe the mouthpiece off first.

 

Rick is trying not to think too far into that, and he finds himself adequately distracted when something floats by in front of his face. He crosses his eyes and leans back, trying to see it better. Before he can figure it out, Daryl's quick fingers pluck it from the air.

 

Turning to look at the younger man, Rick squints to try and see the web-thin, delicate strands of the thistle seed trapped with care in Daryl's grasp. His broad body is blocking the wind, but every breath disturbs the restless fronds and makes them wave like they're searching for the draft that will carry them away.

 

"S'a wishy," Daryl says quietly. His pale eyes glimmer with something that makes Rick take a step closer, and when Daryl looks at him, they're barely a foot apart.

 

"Wishy?" Rick asks. He looks at it again. "It's a thistle seed, right?"

 

"Yeah, I know. Mom always called 'em wishies, though." The trainer cups it in both hands and looks at it, his voice soft and distant as he remembers a time that clearly means something magical to him. "If ya caught 'em, ya was meant ta make a wish on that'un. It ain't just yers, though. All them strands're a fate for a different person. Ya make yer wish, an' ya let 'em go so's they can find th' next soul that's meant ta wish on 'em."

 

"Kind of like a four-leaf clover?" Rick wonders. Daryl nods and glances at him.

 

"Kinda, yeah, but ya gotta keep those for it ta work. Ya don't keep a wishy. Ya ask for yer wish ta come true, thank it, an’ let it go."

 

As if he's demonstrating for Rick, Daryl closes his eyes and brings his hands close to his face. The strands of the thistle seed wave lazily enough that Rick wonders if the trainer is even breathing.

 

After a moment, Daryl opens his eyes and smiles. He murmurs something softly, something that resonates deeply in Rick's chest like the vibrations of a drum. Rick watches with hungry fascination as Daryl lifts his hands and uncurls them, giving the seed plenty of opportunity to be tugged away by the wind. The trainer helps it along, blowing gently but with enough force to send his wish spinning away from them until the breeze can catch it and lift it higher.

 

Rick follows its path until it's out of sight, smiling softly. Beside him, Daryl leans closer until their shoulders are touching, the press of them firm and deliberate rather than accidental. Rick nudges back, trying to convey that he'll hold Daryl up as long as he needs to, if that's what the man wants.

 

"Think I wanna swim too," the trainer says suddenly. Rick looks at him, the brim of Daryl's Stetson bumping his nose from how close they are. It would be so easy to kiss Daryl right now, and he knows that it could change everything in such incredible ways, but he still doesn't. It makes him frustrated, with himself mostly, because he's still waiting for something without having any clue what that something _is_.

 

"Think it'll be deep enough?" Rick asks with a glance toward the river. Lays has moved further upstream and is almost chest-deep now. Streak is eyeing the deeper water like she's contemplating the merits of going farther than where she currently is. The water rolls and laps lazily against her knees, little crests breaking and spraying droplets against her legs. It's impossible for her to look darker than she already is, but with the combination of the sweat and the water making her ink-black coat gleam, Rick thinks she might have managed it.

 

"Even if it ain't, I bet it'll feel good." Daryl pushes himself up with a quiet grunt. Before Rick can comment further, the weight of the Stetson drops on his head. The inner rim is damp from Daryl's sweat, and he can smell the traces of the man's scent that cling to the material. It's a heady mixture of musky sweat, dirt, and something that is uniquely _Daryl_. He feels his cheeks pickle warmly, arousal clawing hungrily in his gut. He smiles and tips the brim back to look up at Daryl.

 

"Looks good on ya," the trainer murmurs quietly. His face is a mask of composure, but amusement burns in his pale eyes, turning them into something darker that matches the tightness in Rick's lower abdomen. It's a dance they've had too many times lately, and yet again, Rick watches as Daryl turns away. He's tempted to fume at himself for wasting so many perfect opportunities. He's gearing up to do it too; pushing the Stetson to an angle that hides his face and digging his teeth into the inside of his lip as punishment for his hesitations.

 

And then Daryl starts taking his shirt off.

 

Rick's eyes meet the trainer's instantly. Daryl pulls the fabric off slowly - not to be coy, but out of hesitancy. He's looking at Rick with a hard stare, as if daring him to comment on whatever he's about to see. Rick never would, so he tilts his head just slightly and gives the man a gentle, encouraging smile. He doesn't say anything, and Daryl doesn't either. The trainer is the first to look away, his cheeks red for the moment Rick can still see them before Daryl gathers his confidence and yanks the sleeveless plaid shirt off the rest of the way.

 

It gets dropped in a heap, and Daryl's already bending down to untie his boots when Rick gets his first look at the man's back and feels his breath stutter in his throat.

 

A tattoo covers almost the entirety of Daryl's back, from the broad stretch of his shoulders down to where his jeans hang loosely off his hips. It's a masterpiece of stark black ink in jagged, swirling designs that remind Rick of the tribal tattoos that have become so popular with people itching for the bite of the needle.

 

At first, Rick thinks it's a tree. It certainly looks like one, with the way the branches spread across Daryl's shoulders before narrowing into a thick trunk that goes all the way down his spine. It ends in oddly-sprawled roots that wrap around his hips and disappear beneath the band of his jeans. It's beautiful, if slightly unusual, and Rick takes every second he can get while Daryl kicks off his shoes to study it.

 

While he's looking his fill, Rick realizes that it's not just a tree he's looking at. The sprawl of the branches take shape and become wings, the leaves looking more and more like feathers. Rick looks again and he sees a vicious beak open in a proud scream - reaching talons and black, fierce eyes. The eagle is in flight, ready to fight or catch its meal, and Rick finds himself hypnotized by the way the violence blends so easily into the nature aspect. It encompasses who Daryl is so beautifully.

 

Daryl stands up slowly, and Rick's roving eyes see the muzzle in the trunk of the tree. He lets the howling wolf emerge on its own, its thick fur ruffled and its head tipped back as it sings to the moon. Whoever drew this knew exactly how to blend bark, feathers and fur. It's a trick of the eye; the different features brought together so incredibly that Rick feels his breath catch.

 

Knowing what he's looking for now, Rick's eyes drop to the roots of the animal tree. It's much easier for him to recognize what he sees this time, amongst the tribal lines that help hide what's really there.

 

The horse is stretched out and running, its long legs bent and its mane flying proudly. He can see the way its head is curved back, like it's looking over its shoulder at whatever is following it. There's no fear in its black eyes, and he's not sure how he knows that, but he does. There's too much joy, too much wild pride in the lines the tattoo artist painted across the canvas of Daryl's flesh. Legs and roots intermingle, bark and fur again made to look so similar that Rick wouldn't have known what to see if he hadn't already known Daryl so well.

 

Daryl, who is standing barefoot on the edge of the riverbank, poised to leap but waiting for Rick to finish looking. The trainer is watching him from the corner of one pale eye, his long hair just barely kissing the arches of the eagle's wings.

 

"You should probably get in, before you get too burned," Rick rasps hoarsely. He doesn't try to hide it this time; doesn't try to clear his throat and speak like looking at Daryl doesn't light every single one of his nerves on fire. He watches the faint shudder ripple across Daryl's body, his shoulder blades flexing and making the eagle's wings shift like it's in flight.

 

"Should get in too," Daryl says so quietly that Rick almost doesn't hear him.

 

"I'm not adventurous enough to ride home in soaked jeans," Rick chuckles. "Maybe next time, I'll bring a change of clothes. That way I can swim too. You go ahead for now. I'll guard camp."

 

"Shitty lookin' camp, if ya ask me," Daryl snorts. "Gonna hafta show ya th' proper way'a that, too?"

 

He says it playfully, but the hint of growl in his voice makes Rick's hunger throb and his eyes darken. He licks his lips and smiles slowly, watching the way Daryl looks quickly at the water. "If you're offerin', then sure."

 

"Asshole," the trainer grumbles, and Rick's laughter is drowned out by the loud splash and Streak's accompanying whinny when Daryl leaps into the river.

 

\--

 

"I cannot believe you rode bareback in soaked jeans," Rick marvels with a shake of his head. Streak's saddle and cinch are tied off the back of his, and Lays thankfully doesn't seem to mind the extra weight. The only thing between Daryl and Streak is the thin saddle pad. She's wearing her bridle, but the man has barely used it. It's a good thing, because the filly is still prone to biting harshly at the metal and throwing her head like the force will be enough to pull it from her mouth. Right now she's biting it so hard Rick worries about her teeth. She only settles when Daryl's fingers scratch behind her ear and massage down the side of her neck.

 

"Can't believe ya were a pansy an' didn't get in th' water," Daryl retorts. He's got his shirt on again, and it's mostly dry from the trip back. Parts are still sticking to him, and Rick can see the darker shadows that he knows now are the tattoo when Daryl moves a certain way and the shirt pulls away from his body.

 

"I guess I'm just not as much of a mountain man as you are," Rick deadpans. The surprise on Daryl's face quickly turns into a wide grin, and his sudden bark of laughter brings Buck running from where the heeler has been waiting for God only knows how long as they approach the driveway. Lays and Streak neigh and snort their greetings to the canine, stepping with care as he winds between them and tries to say hello to everyone at once.

 

"At ease, Buck," Rick finally calls, and the heeler settles until he's loping between the horses as they turn off of the paved road and onto Rick's gravel-and-dirt driveway. Lays and Streak seem happy to be home, and Rick is as well, but he's already mourning the loss of time spent with just Daryl and him. Those few hours were precious beyond measure for so many reasons. He's seen a piece of Daryl he's almost certain not many other people have gotten to witness. It makes him wonder if the animals on the man's back are meant to represent people in his life that mean a lot to him, or if there's another meaning to them. Right now, it's not his place to ask, and he's content enough to ride beside the trainer as the barn draws closer and their private moment fades into memory.

 

Someone - probably Maggie - has brought the trailer out and hooked it to the back of Rick's truck for them. He smiles at the thoughtful gesture, and hears Daryl's quiet, grateful sigh as they come into the main part of the driveway.

 

"I'll unsaddle Lays and get her turned out before we start. Anything else you need?" Rick asks. Daryl clucks at Streak and stops the filly near the trailer. She looks at it curiously but doesn't shy away yet, although one large hoof paws at the ground and digs a furrow in the gravel. She drops her head to nose and snort at it while Daryl smiles indulgently at her.

 

"Nothin’ important. You get Lays,," he murmurs with a nod toward the mare. Rick nods as well and stops Lays so he can dismount. His legs ache from so long in the saddle after not riding for months, and he tries to hide his grimace as he stretches himself. Lays lips at his shoulder, tugging on his shirt and blowing a sweet, grass-scented sigh at him.

 

"Yeah, I know," Rick murmurs as he leads her into the barn. He puts her on the cross ties and gets her out of the tack and wiped down to help her cool off. Once he's got the tack put away and the bridal replaced with her regular halter, he uses a carrot to get her to do her post-ride stretches. It's funny watching her spread her front legs and lean her head down through them to get the treat, and Rick laughs as he lets her get it and pats her shoulder.

 

"C'mon, girl. Let's get you turned out so you can roll around and be silly before dinner." Clucking his tongue, he nudges the mare with a shoulder and gets her back outside. She whinnies when she sees Slicker and Shadow, and the colts whinny in return from where they're waiting at the fence with eager eyes.

 

Lays trots leisurely down the chute to the pasture with the colts keeping pace, the two of them trying to nuzzle her over the fence. She stops to greet them in turn before kicking up her hind hooves and cantering out of reach; turning into the pasture and stopping in the thickest patch of grass she can find. Rick knows she's going to roll, so he leaves her to her fun and goes to rejoin Daryl.

 

The trainer already has the door of the trailer open with Streak tied to the bar that runs along the outside. Daryl's inside the trailer, and Rick wonders what he's doing. It sounds like he's kicking the walls and slamming things around while Streak watches tensely. She looks ready to rear or bolt, but she's not trying to yank against her tie yet, so Rick approaches slowly.

 

"Hey, pretty girl," he croons when she looks at him with wide eyes. He can't see any whites yet, although her nostrils are flaring in distress. "You're okay, Streak."

 

"She's handlin' it pretty nice," Daryl calls from inside the trailer. Rick comes around the side just in time to watch the younger man kick his heel into the metal siding, and the resulting boom makes Rick grimace and Streak snort.

 

"What the hell are you doing?" Rick stares when Daryl kicks the siding again in another spot, farther away from Streak.

 

"Testin' her," Daryl replies with a glance through the window. Streak stares back at him, her ears quivering. "Tryin' ta make her bomb proof. S'a long way ta Churchill Downs for a filly that ain't hardly left th' farm. Gonna be a lot'a noise she's gonna hafta deal with. Figured we should get a head start on it."

 

Considering everything else, Daryl literally kicking up a storm in the transport trailer is something Streak doesn't seem to react to much at all. Rick has seen her pick up a man who weighed almost three hundred pounds by his _belt_ _buckle_ and shake him so hard he was mildly concussed, because he'd tried to pin her in a corner as a yearling and shove a halter on her head. He was one man in a string of overconfident, egotistical men who took Streak's wild nature as a personal challenge, and later, a personal insult.

 

Daryl plants his boot as hard as he can into the side of the trailer, and with the whole structure shaking from the power of it, Streak startles back and whinnies shrilly. Amazingly, her front hooves never try to leave the ground. When the man finally jumps out and lowers the ramp, Rick is shaking his head and smiling.

 

"What?" Daryl mutters defensively as he goes to untie Streak from the tie bar. "Tol' ya, it's a long way ta Churchill Downs."

 

"Daryl Dixon, you almost gave me a heart attack!"

 

Maggie's voice rings loudly across the driveway, and Daryl flinches like she's screamed right into his ear. Rick winces and looks over at the woman, who is pale and wide-eyed as she hurries over to them. She's got Business with her, and the mare is moving quickly to keep up with Maggie while nickering to Streak. The filly whuffles back and stretches her head out to greet her mother, offering Daryl a chance to pull himself together. He's still not as comfortable around the others as he is with Rick, but there _has_ been progress. Otherwise, Maggie would never scold him like this.

 

"Didn' do nothin'," Daryl huffs as he glares from over Streak's neck. He's got his brim pushed low again to offer him some sort of barrier from the intimidating woman.

 

"You were slammin' things around like you were havin' a _fit_ ," Maggie retorts. She doesn't shy away from Daryl's hard stare, but rather squares her stance to make her case. "I thought somethin' had happened while you boys were out! You got _any_ idea what that racket sounds like from over by East? Thought Streak had ya pinned in there!"

 

"She wouldn't," Daryl protests. He clucks at Streak to get her attention and turns like he's trying to slowly leave the conversation rather than outright flee. "An' if she did, would'a been my fault for pushin' her too fast."

 

"Daryl, so help me, if you get hurt one'a these days, you're gonna have Carol to deal with, as well as me. Is that somethin' you want?" Maggie puts her hands on her hips, dropping Business' lead rope to do so. The mare stands and waits quietly, looking over the woman's thin, bony shoulder to see what Daryl is doing with her foal.

 

"Don' need a fuckin' babysitter," Daryl snaps with clear exasperation. He looks to Rick for help, and the rancher smiles.

 

"He was just tryin' to get Streak used to some noise from the trailer," he promises Maggie. She doesn't even look mad, just frustrated at Daryl's apparent lack of care about himself. Rick can sympathize with that, but he also understands where Daryl is coming from and what he's trying to do. "If there really was something wrong, this would have played out a lot differently."

 

Maggie eyes him, and Rick pats her shoulder before following after Daryl. He can hear the woman tying Business to the bar before she follows, and the two of them watch as Daryl introduces Streak to the ramp for the first time.

 

Rick has seen people lead their horses on to trailers calmly. He's seen them drag the horse on bucking and screaming. He's even seen horses that had to be coaxed on with a person at their head and two more pushing from behind with the help of a rope around the horse's hind end. Slicker is the only one who gives Rick trouble when he's loading the colt, but after a few treats the thoroughbred is happy to be led into the enclosed space, so long as the hay rack is full and there's a window open so he can look out.

 

He has never seen a horse stand at the end of the ramp without anyone holding them. That's what Streak is doing, though. She's watching Daryl as he walks up into the trailer, her ears swiveling in every direction as she paws at the ground nervously. Rick can see Daryl, his broad shoulders seeming so much smaller when he's swallowed up by the space inside the trailer. It's big enough to haul four horses at once, and someone as free as Daryl looks out of place with walls on almost every side.

 

Daryl turns to look at them for a moment before his attention fixes on Streak again. He wickers low in his throat, his head dipped forward and his shoulders relaxed. Streak responds with a quiet neigh; lifting one hoof and placing it on the metal ramp. The noise startles her, but she doesn't back away very far. Daryl croons to soothe her, drawing her forward again, and she puts both front hooves on the ramp this time before pausing.

 

"Tha's it, little devil," Daryl murmurs encouragingly. "Maggie, can ya do me a fav’r?"

 

The woman looks startled by the question, but she recovers quickly. "Sure thing, sugar. What do you need?"

 

"Can ya untie Business an' load her on? Let's see if her momma can show her it ain't scary."

 

Maggie nods and goes to do just that. Business sighs happily and follows the woman without prompting. It makes Rick shake his head at just how different the mare and her foal turned out in terms of their temperaments. They're like night and day. Standing side by side, Streak's jet-black coat makes her light gray dam look like a ghost in comparison. Business isn't a small horse by any means, but she already looks smaller next to her daughter. Devil On Earth was a massive stallion, and his filly is well on her way to being just as big as he was. Combined with her personality, it's going to make her one hell of a racehorse. If they can't safely transport her though, then that dream might not last for very long.

 

"Rick?"

 

Daryl doesn't need to say anything other than his name. Meeting the trainer's pale eyes, he nods and leads Streak away from the ramp so Maggie can get Business up into the trailer. The filly watches her mother, her head up and her ears flicking restlessly. Rick pats her sweat-damp neck and clucks his tongue.

 

"See, sweetheart? You don't have anything to worry about. It's not gonna bite you."

 

Business loads up like a dream, going right to Daryl and reaching over his shoulder to eat some of the hay behind him. The trainer chuckles and ties her to the nearby loop, tugging to make sure the quick-release knot is secure enough to hold the mare before he slips from between her and the rack so she has easier access.

 

"See? Jus' that easy," he tells Streak matter-of-factly. Tipping his hat back, he croons to the filly and reaches out to her. Rick drapes the lead rope over her back and watches her put her front hooves on the ramp again. She inches closer - flinches when Daryl reaches toward her face, and noses at his palm when he pets her gently. He digs out a few treats and offers them to the filly, backing up a little more each time until she has to either stretch out her neck to reach him, or take another step.

 

Streak is halfway into the trailer when Abraham throws open the front door of the house and hollers for all of them.

 

"Get inside for grub or get your fill from the garbage!" the farrier shouts. Rick groans in frustration when Streak tries to rear. Thinking fast, Daryl grabs the clip of her lead rope where it's attached to her halter and uses his weight to keep the filly from hurting herself.

 

"Easy, girl, easy," he coos softly. Rick watches her calm slowly beneath his gentle touches, her muscles still jumping but her head coming down until her face is pressed against Daryl's chest and stomach. She sneezes on him, and Daryl laughs.

 

"Yeah, yeah, we're done for now, fussy. Let's get ya out with Lays so ya can calm down, and then we'll get ya your supper. Sound good ta you?"

 

Streak snorts, which Rick assumes is her approval of Daryl's suggestion. Daryl must take that as a yes too, because he calmly backs her off the ramp and leads her toward the pasture without hesitation.

 

"He's incredible," Maggie whispers. She looks impressed and fond; a small smile on her face as she jumps onto the trailer to untie Business. "I'm glad you hired him, Rick. He's good for them. I think he's good for us, too."

 

"I'm not gonna argue with that." Rick watches as Daryl swings the gate open and unclips Streak. He smiles when he sees the filly nudge one of the man's shoulders until he pets down her face and gives her another treat. After she's satisfied, Streak turns away and gallops down the chute while Daryl chuckles indulgently, his hands on his hips and the sunlight hitting him at just the right angle to steal Rick's breath when it lights up the man's profile.

 

"He wouldn't say no," Maggie tells him quietly. "If you kissed him,” she clarifies when Rick glances at her. “He wouldn't say no."

 

"I don't know that for sure yet," Rick murmurs. Daryl turns to look at them, and Rick can see his small, shy smile even from across the driveway. "As soon as I do, trust me: nothin's gonna stop me."

 

"Good." Maggie squeezes his shoulder, smiling at Rick when he glances at her. It's a sweet smile, but it doesn't even come close to affecting him the way Daryl's does. He knows what that means, even if he can't do anything about it yet.

 

Once he knows _exactly_ where Daryl stands in regards to the attraction between them, he'll make good on his words. Nothing will stop him from kissing the man on that day, and nothing short of another bullet will ruin that moment for Rick.

 

It's fast becoming apparent that nothing can stop how much he's already starting to love Daryl Dixon. There's no denying what's growing between them, even if he hasn't been given the chance to show the man just how much he's brightened Rick's world since the day he stepped foot on the ranch - and brought so much more than just himself with him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry I couldn't update on Monday. It was a super busy weekend, and our wonderful katytheinspiredworkaholic had a lot going on as well. Here we are though - chapter seven!
> 
> *hugs and snuggles for all*
> 
> Enjoy!

The months pass far quicker than Rick is expecting them to. It feels like no time at all between Daryl stepping foot on the farm and the day they're ready to leave with the trailer hitched to the back of the truck and Streak inside.

 

It wasn't all easy. After their first attempt and Abraham's accidental disturbance of it, Streak had been wary of the trailer. It had taken a lot of patience - which Daryl seemed to have an endless supply of when it came to the horses - as well as a lot of coaxing on his and Rick's parts. Their persistence had paid off, and Rick had been overjoyed the first day they'd gotten Streak onto the trailer without any sort of fuss or fight.

 

The next hurdle had been getting Streak and Sasha used to one another. Sasha had ridden plenty of horses before, but she'd never come across one quite like Streak. The filly hadn't known how to take the jockey either, and Rick had been almost certain that they would need to find someone else. Sasha wasn't made of patience, not like Rick and Daryl, but she was never cruel to her mounts. She's dedicated to the horses, and her drive to succeed had paid off tremendously the day she'd finally been able to hunker down in the racing saddle and become one with Streak.

 

Rick had watched them learn the home track together, and then later the closest official track they could find. It was a small-time racing track, but it was what they needed. Better yet, it was a more public place than the ranch. There were new sounds for Streak to adjust to, and new turf for her to learn. There were people she didn't know and horses she'd never met before.

 

Daryl had Sasha run the filly carefully when they were being watched. Streak would be competition for anyone, but Daryl didn't see the need to show her off right away. He wanted to pace her, and let her learn the way of things with more than one or two horses to race against.

 

 _It's strategy and show_ , he'd told Rick one night while they were out on the front porch together. They were leaning against the railing, their shoulders pressed together and their heads bent toward one another as they passed a cigarette back and forth. _Devil was a force ta be reckoned with. He was a powerhouse, an' his filly is too. Let 'em think she ain't much more'n normal for a bit. Give 'em a little mystery 'fore she leaves their boys in th' dust. S'my opinion._

 

It was an opinion Rick saw reason in. Daryl knew what he was doing, and Rick was happy to follow his lead. The trainer had never seemed like the take-charge kind of person; always looking to Rick for acceptance of any decision, even though Daryl has proved his merit and his worth on more than one occasion.

 

Rick trusts his judgement. He trusts Daryl's mind. It's why he's hopeful and excited as they pile into their cars a week before the Iroquois Stakes, rather than dreading what is to come.

 

Streak is ready. She's grown so much, both physically and in every other sense of the word. At almost seventeen hands high, she's taller than many two-year-olds Rick has seen, and he knows she's not done growing yet. She's sleek and beautiful, her wicked eyes dark and hypnotic and her head held high and proud. She is every inch Devil's daughter - every inch Devil's Pride.

 

He can hear her moving around in the trailer when he slides into the passenger's seat and looks over at Daryl. The trainer is chewing on his lip, one arm hanging out the open window and the other wrist limp against the steering wheel, his fingers drumming against the dashboard.

 

"She's ready," Rick says soothingly. Daryl glances at him and manages to smile before starting the truck and following after Bob's beat-up old Plymouth. The head groom is coming along, as well as Maggie and Glenn. The rest of the group is staying behind to manage the ranch and watch the race on the television. They have assured Rick - Beth in particular - that they will be cheering for Streak until they're hoarse. Rick appreciates their enthusiasm.

 

The only one who doesn't seem to be buzzing out of his skin is Daryl.

 

"Yeah, I know," the younger man mumbles. He pulls his battered pack of cigarettes out and sticks one in the corner of his mouth, but doesn't light it yet. He chews on the filter instead, glancing at Rick before letting his pale eyes return to the stretch of road in front of them. Woods border either side of it, the path a familiar one they have taken multiple times over the last few months. Daryl has ridden every single horse in Rick's barn - even Badger. In fact, he's the only one the gelding tolerates on his back besides Rick, because Daryl very rarely rides using a saddle. At most, he'll have a saddle blanket and a bridle, but eight times out of ten, he doesn't even use a blanket. He becomes as one with the horse as he can, moving with the smallest shift of their muscles and trusting them the way they trust him.

 

The first time Rick watched Daryl and Slicker jump over a downed log, he swore it was the most incredible feat he'd ever seen. Man and horse had been one single, cohesive unit, and the leg strength Daryl must have needed to not be thrown from the colt's back left Rick nearly dizzy with desire.

 

Even now, watching Daryl rotate and flick the filter in his mouth with his tongue, Rick wants nothing more than to kiss the trainer until all his fears and nerves melt away. Every time they've come close, though, something held them back.

 

Or rather, it held _Daryl_ back. Rick has been ready to kiss Daryl for so long he's amazed he hasn't had an aneurysm from the stress of holding himself back. He made a vow though, and he's determined to hold himself to it. He'll wait for Daryl to show he's ready, or to decide for himself what it is he wants without any outside influence. There's clearly something weighing on the trainer, something that's keeping him from taking that next step.

 

Being in a car with the object of his desire for ten hours is going to test Rick's willpower unlike anything ever has before, but he's determined not to fuck up what has come to be the greatest friendship he's had in a long, long time.

 

"Long trip ta spend in silence," Daryl grunts. Rick looks over in time to see the trainer light his cigarette and draw deeply from it. Rick is mesmerized by the purse of Daryl's lips around the filter; by the flare of the man's nostrils and the way his cheeks hollow with the action. An opaque tendril escapes when Daryl opens his mouth slightly, curling up in front of him.

 

Without taking the cigarette out of his mouth, Daryl blows out the cloud of smoke. Rick has never seen someone who could hold that much in their lungs; the primal part of his brain wonders if Daryl would be good at holding his breath during other activities, and he has to look away quickly. Closing his eyes against the burning sting of the smoke, he tips his head back and thumps it against his headrest.

 

"Any suggestions?" he asks lazily. He hears the smallest shift from Daryl and reaches over to take the cigarette without needing to look. It's almost frightening, how in-tune they've become with one another. The others have each commented on it at least once, how Daryl and Rick seem to be able to communicate without words. Sometimes they don't even have to look at each other.

 

Glenn had made a joke once that Daryl was training Rick as well as the horses. After the trainer's reaction and his awkward, pained interactions with the others in the three days that followed, the groom apologized profusely and swore he was only kidding around. Rick hadn't minded, but Daryl had looked like he'd been told he was kicking Buck for fun. It just made Rick even more determined to wait for Daryl to decide how things between them would progress.

 

The smoke burns his lungs, but it's a familiar pleasure by now. Daryl refuses to smoke menthols, which Rick has no particular opinion of. Overall, smoking is a habit he's not that interested in, but sharing cigarettes with Daryl - getting to taste the faint hint of the younger man's flavor on his tongue - has become the addiction Rick craves.

 

"Can ya..." Daryl stops and makes a quiet, frustrated noise. Rick glances over at him, blowing his cloud of smoke out the window and waiting for the trainer to gather his thoughts. Prompting now will only make Daryl clam up, so Rick waits patiently.

 

Eventually, his patience is rewarded. Daryl slumps back in his seat, drumming his fingers restlessly against the windowsill. "How'd ya get shot?"

 

It's not the question Rick was expecting to hear. He figured it would be coming sooner or later, so he's not shocked into silence either. He hands the cigarette back to Daryl and scratches at his growing beard. Distantly, he wonders what Shane and Lori would think if they could see him right now.

 

"I was a Sheriff's deputy," he starts off. "My partner on the force was also my best friend; we'd known each other since we were three. Our moms were really close, so we grew up more like brothers than just neighbors. We went through the Academy together, got jobs together; he was best man at my wedding."

 

There had always been a small part of Rick that had wondered _what_ _if_. What if he and Shane could have been more than what they were? For a while, Rick had thought there was something there, but Shane never talked about it. He chased skirts and bragged about his conquests, and Rick tucked those thoughts away. Eventually, they faded like the seasons, although once it was gone, it never came back. Shane trailed after anything feminine and curvy that walked on two legs, and Rick met Lori. He forgot there was another side of him - or buried it so deeply he'd figured it would never reemerge.

 

Then he got shot, and Shane gave Lori the comfort Rick never seemed capable of. The years passed, and Rick healed. And then Daryl slid into his life.

 

"We got a call, one night." Looking out the front windshield, Rick watches Sasha's form turn toward Bob to say something. "Wasn't supposed to be that dangerous. It was a typical run-of-the-mill argument between two guys at a bar. Shane and I, we'd started off working in a small town in King County before being transferred up the road to Atlanta. We were two small-town boys in a big city, but our guys helped take care of us.

 

"Shane took to Atlanta almost right away. I was never a city lover, but I did alright. That night was a mistake on both our ends. We didn't check the one guy thoroughly, or he just had the gun hidden well enough that we went right over it. Either way, they got heated with each other again. We tried to intervene, and the man drew his gun on us. Shane tried to take him down, because no way were we getting our guns out quick enough. Soon as he made contact, the guy fired. Damn bullet hit just right between my vest panels. Last thing I remember was Shane screamin' at me to stay with him, and then nothin'. Anything after that felt like a dream until I woke up."

 

"Dream?" Daryl looks at him curiously. "Said ya were in a coma, right? Ya still knew what was goin' on?"

 

"In a way, I guess?" Rick rubs a hand down his face, humming quietly as he tries to think of the best way to say it. "I had moments of clarity, I think, when I was close enough to consciousness to understand some of what was going on. Every time I started to become too aware, the pain would send me right back down again. I remember pieces here and there. Mostly Lori and Shane. A doctor or nurse once or twice. For the most part, it was just black. Like one very long sleep without any dreams."

 

Daryl looks like he's chewing that over, so Rick waits for him to speak again. He lets his mind wander as his eyes take in the terrain. In the distance, he can see the dark smudges of smog-hazed Atlanta. Somewhere in there, Shane is probably out in his patrol car looking for criminals and laughing with his partner while Lori cooks and waits for him to come home.

 

It should make Rick angry. It should make him bitter and jaded and hollow, because the life he knew was effectively destroyed when Shane and Lori stood hand-in-hand in Rick's hospital room and told him that this this was the way it was going to be now. He should hate them, he should even hate the distant blur of the city that took so much from him, but instead he sits in the passenger seat and smiles when he hears Streak whinny in the trailer.

 

"Said Shane was best man at yer weddin'," Daryl says suddenly. Rick meets his pale eyes and watches the last of the smoke leak from Daryl's mouth to obscure his features for a moment. The wind from the open window snags the tendrils as whisks them away, leaving no barrier between them again. "I'm guessin' the wife ain't around no more."

 

"No, she's not," Rick agrees. He smiles, and it's not bitter or mean. Hating Lori and Shane for what they did would solve nothing. Rick has spent long enough living with the pain of the night he got shot. He's got no interest in piling more emotional pain on top of that.

 

"Ain't gotta tell me," Daryl whispers. He's looking straight ahead, his knuckles white from his grip on the steering wheel while the other arm remains hanging out the window. "Ain't no one's business but yours, anyway."

 

"We finalized the divorce two months after I got out of the hospital." Reaching over, Rick touches the back of Daryl's hand until he relaxes his grip enough for the leather to stop creaking in protest. He catches those pale, evasive eyes and smiles gently, saying more with a look than he would ever need to try putting into words. "She and Shane got married about half a year after that."

 

Those blue eyes widen. "Are ya fucking serious?" Daryl growls. His lips twist and curl back, his fury entirely on Rick's behalf. It's touching, but unnecessary. "They fuckin' did that ta you? What _assholes_."

 

"It was hard on all of us in our own ways," Rick murmurs. He strokes over Daryl's knuckles unconsciously, watching Daryl calm slowly from the corner of his eye. "When I woke up, I had to relearn a lot of things. When I was comatose, they had to watch me slowly waste away. They needed comfort, and they found it in each other. I'm not saying what they did was right, Daryl, but Lori and I had been unhappy for a long time before that, believe me. We were headed in that direction anyway. It really was for the best."

 

"Th' fuck it was," Daryl spits. "She was yer wife, an' he was s'pposed ta be yer _best_ _friend_. If they were gonna fuck ya over like that, they could'a at least waited until ya were awake ta talk it over. They took th' choice from ya 'cause they were selfish an' greedy. Fuckin' _pricks_."

 

"Daryl, it's okay." Rick covers the back of the trainer's hand with his own. Daryl's skin is so warm beneath his palm, his fingers flexing beneath Rick's until he croons low in his throat in an effort to soothe the younger man. Rick's upper body is twisted toward the driver's side, his hand over Daryl's and his other hand bracing him against the middle console. Daryl won't meet his gaze, even when Rick tilts his head to try and catch those pale, roving eyes.

 

"They fuckin'-"

 

"I know what they did, Daryl. Believe me, it _was_ for the best. I loved my job. I loved being a cop. But being there, trapped in that city... Being there wasn't what was best for me. Being here, now, with the horses and people I _know_ are loyal... This is where I belong. Okay?"

 

Daryl finally looks at him, his eyes sparking like lightning and as dark as a roiling storm. Rick can see the skies clearing though, and he smiles as he squeezes the back of the man's hand reassuringly. "Nowhere else I'd rather be," he whispers. The words are quiet but fierce, and sincere in a way he knows Daryl cannot deny. Sure enough, the trainer swallows thickly and nods once, showing he understands what Rick isn't saying just as much as he understands what has already been spoken.

 

Silence settles between them for a while. Rick returns to his own side of the cab and leans against his door, tapping idly against the window runner as he watches the landscape change around them.

 

Georgia is a beautiful state, and one that Rick has loved since he was old enough to appreciate her history. He loves her for both the good and the bad, which is exactly how love should be - even when it comes with a bloody, gruesome past.

 

"Told ya my mom was full Cherokee, right?" Daryl begins quietly after almost an hour of silence. They don't even have the radio playing, and Rick hadn't noticed until he checks the time and realizes that the screen is dark beside the glowing green numbers set off to the side.

 

"You did, yes," he nods. "She sounded like an amazing woman."

 

"She was," the trainer agrees with a small smile. "Best woman I ever met. Hell, best person I'd ever met, period. At least back then." He glances at Rick before looking away quickly and licking his lips. "I have a brother, too."

 

"I know," Rick admits. Daryl looks at him sharply, one eyebrow arching. "Dale told me a while back. It was an accident, I promise. He didn't tell me much, just that your brother's name is Merle, and that he's in a coma."

 

"Ol' coot," the trainer snorts, but he sounds too fond of their mutual friend to be properly angry about it. "Guess ya know why I was so interested in ya tellin' 'bout your experience," he mutters.

 

"How long has Merle been in a coma, if I may ask?" Rick shifts to try and find a more comfortable position, repressing a wince at the way his back and side twinge. He's going to need to get out and walk soon, but he's not ready to ask for them to stop.

 

"Bit over two years." Daryl is watching him and frowning slightly. He doesn't ask, so Rick doesn't say anything. "What, Dale didn' tell ya that, too?"

 

"Whatever I learn from here on out, I want to come from you." Streak whinnies loudly before Daryl can respond, interrupting their conversation. Rick looks in the rear view mirror with a thoughtful frown. "We should check on her soon. Maybe walk her around a bit."

 

When he looks at the trainer again, Daryl has a cigarette clamped between his thin lips, although he hasn't tried to light it yet. He looks like he's thinking very hard about what he wants to say next. Rick waits, wondering if he's gone too far by getting information from Dale instead of the man who should have been the one to tell him all along.

 

The silence stretches out again, but there's no tension like Rick thought there would be. Finally, when his lips are itching to shatter the quietness, Daryl speaks.

 

"He's my half brother," he mutters. "Different moms. He's twelve years older'n me, so he was like a dad an' a brother when I was growin' up. Had our dad, too, but that man was in no way father material. Sure as fuck weren't husband material, neither. Hell, could barely consider him human, if ya ask me."

 

The venom in Daryl's voice at the mention of his father startles Rick. It shouldn't, considering the conclusions he's already drawn about the kind of childhood Daryl must have had. It must have been brutal, to make him the way he is around people. Rick hasn't seen any scars yet, but he's well aware that not all lasting trauma is visible. Sometimes wounds go deep beneath the surface.

 

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, Daryl," Rick murmurs. "I understand. Like you said before, it's none of my business."

 

"Thanks," Daryl says quietly. He looks a lot more relaxed than he was a few moments ago, which Rick chooses to take as a good sign.

 

They settle further into their seats and bask in the quietness of their connection, their eyes finding one another occasionally and the cigarette waiting in the corner of Daryl's mouth. He still hasn't lit it yet, which Rick takes as more of a sign than the shadow of a smile that hovers over Daryl's lips when their eyes meet for what must be the hundredth time and Rick sees clear, cloudless blue that warms him like the sun after a storm.

 

\--

 

The day of the race dawns bright and clear. Rick is a ball of nervous energy as he stumbles through his morning routine and leaves his hotel room to meet up with the others.

 

Louisville, Kentucky has been buzzing nonstop for the past week as owners, trainers and horses trickled in. Streak has been a menace in her stall, screaming and raging at being cooped up when she'd rather be out feeling the sun on her back and grazing. Rick has gotten more than one look for his filly's behavior, but he's just smiled and laughed with the owners and their men who have come to gawk at the midnight-black beast with the rolling eyes and the fire of a demon in her.

 

There's a placard on Streak's stall that has her name on it - _Devil's_ _Pride_. Seeing it gives Rick a thrill, and more than one person has seen the filly's name and understood the meaning behind it.

 

Daryl has been almost as surly as Streak, although he's a lot more quiet about it. He and Sasha work her when they can, testing her and letting her acclimate to her environment. Rick has found the trainer by the track more than once, leaning against the fence and staring out at the dirt with a far-away look in his eyes.

 

The morning of the Iroquois Stakes, Rick finds Daryl outside the barn smoking and hiding behind his Stetson. No one says anything as they skirt around him to get inside the building. He doesn't even look up when Rick settles beside him with his hands in his pockets.

 

"Today's the day," he says lightly. The trainer grunts but doesn't say anything. "Daryl, relax. She's more than ready, and you know it. She's had the week to get used to so many horses. She's tried the track. Sasha held her back, and she _hated_ it."

 

That gets a smile, even though it's small. Daryl looks at him, and Rick can see the fear in his pale eyes as clearly as he can see the sun coming up over Churchill Downs.

 

"Even if she doesn't win, there's always more races," Rick assures the younger man. "It's her maiden race, Daryl. We can't expect perfection when she's never done something like this before."

 

"Ya say it like she ain't gonna fight every step of the way," Daryl huffs. As if she's agreeing with him, Streak whinnies loudly. Several colts answer back, and Rick can faintly hear the sound of a few hooves kicking stall doors. Today, it's not just his filly that's acting out. All of the horses in the barn know that something is happening. There's an energy in the air that's got all of them riled up. The horses who know this song and dance are quieter, but the younger ones, the ones who are new or are still making a name for themselves, are too wound up to be calmed easily.

 

Racing fever already has people moving around quickly too. Owners and trainers are coming in to check their horses over one last time before they start saddling them up for the jockeys. The relaxed atmosphere is cracking and falling away to reveal the buzzing hive of activity that's stayed just below the surface until now.

 

"Here," Daryl offers, passing the last of the cigarette to Rick. He takes it with a nod and lets the nicotine calm his mounting anxieties. He's not afraid that Streak won't do well. His filly was born to run, and after today, everyone will know it. He's not worried about the colts, or the other one or two fillies he spotted that have come to try and show that they have what it takes.

 

If anything, Rick is worried about Daryl. The trainer has reverted to the man he was when he showed up at Rick's ranch just a few months ago. This past week has tested them all, but it's been the hardest on Daryl. The trainer knows his methods aren't the norm, and Rick has seen more than one hardened man giving him odd looks as they watched him put Streak through her paces. Word spread quickly that Devil's daughter was at Churchill Downs, even though no one has outright said anything to Rick. The men who knew the demon of the racetrack have hung back, waiting and watching to see if the filly is anything like her sire when she's put to the test.

 

Now, as the start of the race draws closer, Daryl becomes even quieter. When he's not with Streak, the man is making his rounds with the other horses - which is how they find out Dale's got a colt in the Stakes as well.

 

"Sugar Glider, huh?" Rick says by way of greeting when he finally lays eyes on the older man. Daryl has spent the last ten minutes crooning quietly to the nervous bay, who can't seem to decide if he'd rather pace in circles or sway in place. Dale laughs as he watches his horse settle beneath Daryl's attentions, a kind smile lighting up his face.

 

"My granddaughter picked it out," Dale defends with a lopsided grin. "She calls him her sugar cube, and he's a glider, so she thought it would be fitting."

 

"He's a handsome creature," Rick murmurs. The colt is tall and long-bodied, with good legs and bright eyes. He looks built for speed, but only being out on the track will tell Rick what he has to offer. He hadn't even noticed that Dale was around. He must have sent the colt with his trainer and came down in the last day or two.

 

"I doubt he's got much against your girl," the older man chuckles. "I saw her training yesterday. She's going to give all of us a challenge when you really let her go."

 

"I hope so." Rick watches Daryl as the trainer reaches through the bars to touch Sugar Glider's nose. For a bay, he's got a lot of white on his face. Rick likes his look. "Guess we should get her ready to go."

 

"See you at the finish line, Rick." They shake hands, Dale's other hand clapping him on the shoulder before they separate to finish up their duties. Daryl leaves the colt after one last pet, turning and heading back to Streak to pull her out and lead her to the paddock so they can get her tack on. Rick follows after him, seeing the tension in the younger man as much as he senses it.

 

They work together silently, the way they do best. As soon as Streak is in the open stall, Rick gives her a final quick groom while Glenn picks her hooves. Maggie and Daryl get her tack ready while Sasha readies herself with the other jockeys in the locker rooms. Bob holds her reigns in case she gets too frisky.

 

"Good color choice, Rick," Maggie compliments as she lays the silk over Streak's back and sets the saddle in place. Rick smiles at the dark blue and forest green colors, remembering the forest and the river that inspired them. He feels Daryl watching him and gives the trainer a conspiratorial wink. Pale eyes warm, a smile touching over Daryl's thin lips before it's gone and he's focused again on his tasks.

 

Sasha joins them just as they finish up, looking determined and eager. Rick can see the jockeys trickling in slowly as the announcer prattles on about stats over the intercom. Every once in awhile, he hears Streak being mentioned, but he's too busy to focus on exactly what is being said.

 

It feels like no time at all, the hours blurring by in seconds, and yet at the same time  Rick feels like he blinked and it's time to get ready. Streak is the fourth in the gate out of ten horses. It's the most she's ever run against. Sugar Glider is number six, looking resplendent in Dale's colors and with his head high as he eagerly chews his bit.

 

Surprisingly enough, Streak is quiet and behaving herself. Rick can see the tension twitching across her body, her muscles coiling and her nostrils flaring, but she doesn't fight them and she doesn't try to lunge forward. Sasha swings up into the saddle when they hear the call for jockeys to saddle up, and the filly barely twitches. It gets them even more odd looks, because everyone has seen what a nightmare Streak has been in her stall all week, and now she's as quiet and serene as anything as Rick unclips the lead rope and waits.

 

The horses line up in their order, one through ten. Daryl stands at Streak's other shoulder, talking quietly to Sasha while she leans forward to better hear him. Rick catches bits of what they're saying, but his attention is drawn to the intercom when the announcer starts to call the names of the horses running in the Stakes.

 

One by one, they head into the tunnel and out onto the track. Rick listens to the stats on each horse, and the odds stacked for or against them. When it's their turn to move, he takes a deep breath and follows after Streak as Sasha urges her forward. Daryl comes around to walk behind him, keeping close but being careful not to trip up either of them.

 

"Number four today, ladies and gentlemen: Devil's Pride, out of Devil On Earth!"

 

The response from the crowd is a mixture of eagerness and surprise. Devil On Earth was a champion that won't soon be forgotten. He was three lengths ahead of his competitor in the Belmont Stakes when he went down. Rick has heard Dale talk about it; the way the colt's hooves went out from under him - the way the broken bone had sliced through his flesh; the anger in Devil's scream as he'd struggled to get back to his feet and _finish_.

 

The horse would never race again, but he would live a few good years after that horrific accident. The break, though grisly and horrible to look at, was clean enough for surgeons to repair the limb. His legacy was the envy of many, because if he hadn't lost his footing, he would have been the first Triple Crown winner in 37 years.

 

Rick remembers reading about Devil's passing. He was an icon among those in the lifestyle - something to strive for while remembering that even the greats are as fallible as any other. His gene pool is small, and foals from his line have been known to do well from what Rick has read. None of them are quite as magnificent as their sire, but whenever one of his offspring pops up anywhere - and they've been doing so recently as they become two year olds - people get excited.

 

When Streak walks onto the track, the effect is instantaneous. People shout and cheer, not just because a filly has joined the colts, but because looking at Streak, there's no doubting that she is, indeed, the daughter of Devil On Earth. Rick goes to find his seat with Daryl, both of them watching her own the track before she even has to run it.

 

In four months, Streak has grown and filled out in the way Rick has been waiting to see. At almost 17 hands high, she's tall and long. There is nothing dainty about her, nothing soft and sweet in her nature. She tosses her head, and Rick smiles at her show of attitude when she dances away from the pony and rider that come to lead her to the gate. Before the murmurs can even begin, she smoothly returns to their side and lets the rider take her reins.

 

Devil always did the same thing.

 

The announcer continues on, the excitement of the crowd growing with each new horse that comes out of the tunnel. The first ones on the track are already at the gate; Rick can look at the gigantic television with a close-up of them. He sees a few colts being difficult, the noise and the atmosphere making them fight getting in the confined space.

 

Streak walks in with barely any fight, and Rick grins at Daryl. The trainer is chewing his thumb, his free hand tucked up under an armpit as he hugs himself and watches the track without blinking. Now that they have a moment, Rick takes a look at the man and realizes something he hadn't noticed until just this moment.

 

Daryl has left his Stetson behind. His hair is clean and brushed, the amber and gold highlights glowing through when the sun hits him just right. His shirt is a dark blue button-up, and there isn't a speck of dust on it. He's wearing a charcoal colored vest, and dark pants that Rick has never seen before. He's dressed up for today, looking gorgeous and groomed in a way Rick has not once seen in four months.

 

Rick is wearing a nice suit, trying his best to look the part of the owner come to watch his filly run her first race. Next to Daryl, though, he feels like he can't even begin to compare. There's so much he wants to say, so much he would love to _do_ , but he settles for smiling warmly at Daryl when those pale, captivating eyes turn his way curiously.

 

"Almost time," Daryl says softly. "You ready?"

 

"All thanks to you, yes," Rick murmurs. "Wouldn't be anywhere close to ready if it wasn't for you. Thank you, Daryl."

 

The trainer turns a faint shade of pink but doesn't look away; torn between his shy, awkward nature and hopeful vulnerability as he leans in just a little bit closer.

 

Rick's breath hitches, his eyes dropping to Daryl's mouth in time to see the man lick his lips. He licks his own, quick and eager, and Daryl's cheeks get a little redder.

 

"Rick..." he whispers hoarsely. It's there on his face, the hunger they've danced around for months painted beautifully in the rosy tint on his cheeks and the way his mouth opens just a little bit. All of the noise bleeds to silence, and Rick smiles as his hand comes up to cup the side of Daryl's face. He feels the warmth of the man's skin - the stutter of his breath against Rick's thumb.

 

"Daryl," Rick whispers. "You're one of the greatest things that's ever happened to me. You know that?"

 

Daryl's gasp is drowned put by the blare of the buzzer. They don't leap apart and scramble to gather their composure, not like Rick expected them to. The sudden surge of noise pouring in makes his temples throb, but the eagerness that comes with it makes them turn quickly toward the gates. Their eyes search the herd for Streak, and Rick grins so widely his face hurts when he spots the filly in sixth place - a black spot in a sea of brown and flashes of white.

 

The sound of the hoofbeats is thunderous, the noise of the crowd even more so as everyone watches the horses. The announcer is shouting placements over the screams, his quick stats riling everyone up even further.

 

It might as well be white noise to Rick. All he can see is Streak - all he can hear is the bass rumble of the hooves vibrating the ground beneath their feet and the grunts and snorts of ten horses stretched out as they race for glory and the joy of just _running_.

 

"Get her away from th' fuckin' fence," Daryl hisses. Rick grips his program hard enough to crumple it, trying not to chew his nails from nerves as he watches Streak. A colt sneaks up behind her, the jockey trying to angle his mount to trap her in place. Rick can almost imagine he hears his filly's enraged scream as she swerves away from the fence, forcing the colt to back off or run the risk of being trampled.

 

The jockey has no choice but to open the gap, and as soon as he does, Streak lunges. Rick can see her head and the dark lashes of her mane cutting through the air as she works her way to the outside of the cluster.

 

" _Let her go_ ," Daryl shouts. Rick wasn't expecting it, and he knows there's no way for Sasha to hear the trainer, but Daryl doesn't seem to care. He's hanging onto the half-wall in front of him, his pale eyes wide and shining as he watches Streak in her element. He's whispering it again - _let her go, let her run, let her **fly**_. Rick twists his program in his fists, watching and waiting.

 

"Let her go, Sasha," he whispers. "C'mon. She wants it. Let her have it. Give her her head."

 

He can see the instant Sasha does just that. Streak is in fourth place and holding strong, but the second the jockey loosens her hold on the reins, the filly takes that freedom and becomes the blur Rick has always known her to be.

 

The third place jockey is clearly not expecting the filly to overtake him so quickly. His colt tries to put on a burst of speed, aided by the insistence of his rider, but there's no point. Streak is already ahead of them and working her way further toward the front of the group as they come around the final curve.

 

She streaks past the second horse, leaving him in the dust, and overtakes the one in first place in the span of a few heartbeats, her hooves barely seeming to touch the ground. They battle it out for the lead as the finish line draws closer, but Rick can tell that the filly is just waiting.

 

Sure enough, Streak grows bored of her game and puts on a final burst of speed. Her sides gleam, her tail streaming behind her and her muscles coiling as she surges her way to first place and passes the finish line almost a full length in front of the next horse.

 

Just like that, it's over.

 

The entire stadium explodes in noise. People are screaming and cheering; programs are flying and feet are stomping as every single person in the crowd celebrates the win of Devil's Pride.

 

Rick is screaming as well, his throat burning from the force of his triumphant shouts. He throws his pamphlet and has no idea where, and he doesn't even care. He can barely hear the announcer over the noise, but he hears when the man calls out the official winning lineup and feels tears well in the corners of his eyes.

 

Streak did it. She won.

 

Daryl is silent beside him, but he looks so proud that Rick can't help but pull him into the tightest hug he's ever given the trainer. Strong arms wrap around him in return, Daryl's strength matched by his joy as they hug and whisper their congratulations to one another.

 

"Never could have done it without you," Rick swears fiercely. He feels Daryl's shiver and smiles against the man's warm, smoothly-shaved cheek. "You are an incredible man, and she's an incredible horse. I'd say that makes me the luckiest son of a bitch alive right now."

 

They need to be at the winner's circle, so Rick grabs Daryl by the wrist before he can answer and leads the way through the crowd. Streak is already there, her head lifted proudly and her expression conveying her smugness as reporters take pictures and fawn over her. Sasha is holding the filly's reins, grinning from ear to ear and splattered in mud.

 

"What a way to break a maiden race!" one reporter calls as soon as Rick steps up beside his horse. "She's made Devil On Earth proud, there's no doubt about it. What are your plans from here on out?"

 

"I want to take her all the way, if she'll have it," Rick replies as he pats Streak's neck. She tosses her head and whinnies, and several people laugh.

 

"You want to take her to the Triple?" Another reporter leans closer with her microphone, looking intrigued. "No filly has ever won the Triple Crown races. What makes you think she could be the first?"

 

Rick smiles and nods his head toward Streak. "She's got Devil's blood, and his determination. If she wants to do it, she's going to. She's a bit stubborn like that."

 

There's more laughter and more questions before Rick is allowed to take his filly to walk her out and cool her down. Daryl slips back to his side as soon as they're away from the camera. Sasha gives them both a grin and a hug before jogging away to get changed, leaving the two of them alone with Streak.

 

"So fuckin' proud'a ya, little devil," the trainer croons. He holds her massive face in his hands and presses his forehead between her eyes, whispering reverently against her sweat-damp muzzle. "Knew ya had it in ya, ya fuckin' beauty. Gonna show 'em all, ain't ya?"

 

"I think we are, yeah," Rick agrees with a smile. Daryl looks at him, and his eyes are so dark, his joy and elation melting into something that makes Rick's blood simmer. They finish walking Streak and get her back to her stall, where Glenn, Maggie and Bob are waiting with feed, hay, and cheers.

 

"Drinks!" Glenn exclaims with a dramatic flair. He points a finger at Daryl. "That means you as well, Dixon! No ducking out this time!"

 

"Sure," Daryl agrees with a smirk. "Whatever ya say, kid."

 

Glenn sputters and tries to glare, but they're all too ecstatic for any playful anger to last long. Rick sends them all on their way, leaving just himself and Daryl to get Streak settled for the night. The barn is buzzing with noise as people bring in their horses and bed them for the evening before heading back out to celebrate or dwell over the race.

 

Rick receives congratulations from almost every person that walks past Streak's stall. Beside him, Daryl is almost trembling as he brushes the filly down needlessly. The tension between them is crackling stronger than ever, the emotions between them hovering on a precipice. Something is going to give, Rick can taste it like an oncoming storm. The question is when the clouds will break, and who moves first.

 

It's Daryl, just like Rick has been waiting for. After months of dancing around each other - weeks of meaningful looks and silent conversation, of the two of them working in harmony and balanced on the edge - it's _finally_ Daryl. It was always going to be Daryl, and Rick is beyond ready for it. He's aching for it, _burning_ for it, and when his back hits the stall wall with a quiet thump, he's already sliding his hands into Daryl's soft, dark hair and tangling his fingers up in the silky strands. He's already pulling Daryl in, his palms hot against the trainer's ears and Daryl's arms locking around his neck like solid bands of steel.

 

The kiss is like fireworks exploding in the night sky - bright sparks that flare with a crack and sparkle in a kaleidoscope of colors. Rather than fading away, these burn even brighter as Daryl's lips scrape against his. Their heads tilt, their mouths meeting again and again, and Rick swears he sees the lights of a million stars burning behind his eyelids.

 

Daryl tastes like smoke, the flavor of him something bitter and musky. He tastes like ozone and burns like the sun in the middle of the summer. He's alive and strong against Rick, pushing him back harder as he tries to get impossibly closer. Rick leaves a hand to cup the back of the trainer's head and strokes down Daryl's spine, shivering and feeling Daryl's answering tremble when Rick cups one of his hips.

 

Rick has no idea if they're alone, or if there's a group of people peering around Streak's bulk to gape at them. He can't even find it in himself to care if they are, too busy losing himself in Daryl's wild beauty and feeling the way he tames under Rick's touches.

 

"Daryl," he whispers, the name scraping out of his throat full of so much longing and love that the syllables are dripping with it. The trainer gasps and shoves himself back, looking at Rick with wide eyes. His lips are swollen, and his face is dark from his flush. Rick watches him touch his mouth with trembling fingers, and he already knows where this is headed. He's scrambling to stop it, trying to catch Daryl before he gets too far away, but it's like trying to catch the wind. It's like trying to trap a mustang, a wild beast never meant to wear a halter until the right person comes along to show them that trust comes in all forms.

 

"Daryl," he says again, pleading this time, but the trainer shakes his head and runs; leaving Rick to watch him disappear into the wilderness until the rancher can find him and try again.

 

In this instance, Rick is more than happy to follow and try again. And again. He'll try as many times as it takes, until he can touch Daryl and know that the man won't recoil from what Rick can see he's so desperate to have.

 

Squaring his jaw and hardening his determination and his resolve, Rick runs after his Shy Boy.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all - I'm nopin' the fuck out'a Sunday, bros. I am just... nope.
> 
> But hey, it is indeed Monday again, and in keepin' with tradition, that means MORE HORSE RACING. So, uh, here it is. Beta'd, once more, by the lovely and talented katytheinspiredworkaholic - who is a godsend, no fuckin' joke.
> 
> Here y'all go! GET READY FOR IT.
> 
> *A/N: Also y'all a HUGE shoutout ta fandomlifetookmyhandandsaidRUN for the artwork/manip I totally forgot ta post last night. I hunted down pictures of the horses for references, and they made this beautiful collage I am now gonna spam y'all with. I cannot tell a lie - tears were shed when I saw it. It's so beautiful. Thank ya, ya sweet, sweet pumpkin whoopie pie. ;u;

"Daryl!"

 

Daryl doesn't say anything, just ducks his head and tries to walk faster. If he really wanted to get away, Rick knows he would already be gone. He's glad that most people are out enjoying their post-race celebrations - it means that the surrounding area is all but deserted, so when he finally catches Daryl by his forearm and turns him around, no one is there to see it.

 

"Daryl, talk to me," he implores softly. The trainer tilts his head forward and hides behind his bangs, his shoulders drawing up. The muscles beneath Rick's hand are coiled and tense.

 

"Nothin' ta say," Daryl grunts. "Lemme go, Rick. Was an accident."

 

Rick frowns. "Bullshit," he whispers fiercely, and with enough force behind the word to make Daryl twitch. He's still not trying to pull away, but Rick doesn't know if that makes it better or worse. "That kiss was no accident, Daryl, and you know it. What are you so afraid of?" He cups Daryl's cheek and slowly coaxes him into lifting his head. Those pale eyes try to avoid his, but Rick presses their foreheads together until the younger man has no choice but to look at him. "Tell me," he begs. "Please."

 

Daryl's eyes look so tortured that it breaks Rick's heart. He feels fingers grip the flaps of his jacket and hold on, pulling the material tight against his back. The heat of the day is breaking as the sun slowly begins to set; the air cooling as night sets in and throws them into the shadows cast by the barn.

 

"You got any idea what it's like, bein' invisible all yer life?" Daryl finally answers. His voice is barely audible, and thick with anguish; his knuckles white from how hard he's holding onto Rick's jacket. "You got any fuckin' clue what people used ta say about me for bein' Will Dixon's kid?"

 

"I don't know who that is," Rick replies calmly. He strokes his fingers through Daryl's hair - lays his other hand over one of the trainer's fists and brushes his thumb against the trembling knuckles. "I wouldn't care, even if I did. I'm not interested in where you come from, Daryl. I'm interested in _you_."

 

"It would make a difference," the younger man insists. He's pulling Rick closer, but still angling his own body away; desperate for comfort, but still so afraid of what it could mean. "I ain't good people, Rick. Maybe good enough ta train a horse, yeah, but I ain't-" He shakes his head emphatically. "I ain't good for nothin' else."

 

"You are more than you will ever see yourself as." Rick presses his lips against Daryl's temple, kissing the spot gently. "You are more than your family, Daryl. You are your own person, free to live the life and makes the choices _you_ want to make. They have no influence over that."

 

"My dad was one'a th' most brutal men ya'd ever meet,” Daryl snorts. “Used ta break horses by breakin' their spirits. Took everything they'd been from 'em, 'til they was just scared, hollow beasts. He called _that_ trainin’. Did th' same ta Merle'n me, too, an’ called it th’ same thing."

 

The words come from Daryl like they're being forced out - drug from his throat without his consent until they've been spit into the space between him and Rick. It's the most painful bursting of a metaphorical dam that Rick has ever seen, and the trainer looks even more wretched afterwards. Admitting to that kind of abuse cannot be an easy thing, and Daryl says it with a flat numbness that cuts even deeper than his misplaced anger. Rick wants to take it from him more than he's ever wanted anything else, but that past is set and carved into Daryl's psyche. He can't take it from the trainer, but Rick can try to help him heal now.

 

"You are not your father, Daryl," he whispers with enough vehemence to snap those pale, pleading eyes to his face. "You are a better man than he will ever be."

 

"He's dead." Daryl yanks Rick even closer, their breaths mingling and his eyes begging for penance he has no need to seek. "Killed tryin' ta break a horse. Same horse that got Merle afterward. He was never as ruthless as th' old man, but he still wasn't good ta 'em. Merle lived, if ya wanna call that livin'."

 

"And the horse?" Rick asks. Something tells him that the question is an important one. Daryl shudders against him and lets out a quiet, strained bark of bitter laughter.

 

"Trained it. Gained his trust and turned him int'a one'a th' best barrel racers th' owner said he'd ever seen.” There's no pride in the words, not the way Rick believes there should be. If anything, Daryl sounds even more broken about it. It's understandable, after that kind of trauma - being the one to train the horse that killed his father and left his brother in a coma. The trainer's voice softens as he goes on, bringing Rick with him into happier memories. “Still loved horses more'n anythin’ else, though. Kept watchin' videos after that. Wanted ta learn all I could. Swore I'd never be like _them_. Took me a while ta find work. Could understand why, since I'm a Dixon an’ all. Dale was my first real chance. An' then you."

 

It doesn't matter that they're in public. Rick doesn't care if one or two late-night wanderers stumble into their corner and see them wrapped around each other. He doesn't care who Will Dixon was, only what he did to the gorgeous man struggling to stay when all he wants to do is flee. Daryl looks two seconds away from bolting again, and Rick's not entirely sure if he'll come back in one piece.

 

"Daryl, listen to me." Cupping the man's face in both hands, Rick makes sure Daryl is looking at him before he continues. "Whoever he was, no matter what he did, _you are not him_. You are strong, and brave, and so good that I almost can't believe it. I've never met anyone like you before in my life, and I never will again. I don't want you anywhere but right here with me, but I will never force you to stay. That has to be your choice."

 

"I don't wanna go," Daryl whispers. He wraps his warm fingers around Rick's wrists, holding on like he'll be dragged away if he lets go for even a second. Rick backs them further out of sight, pressing his back up against the cooling side of the barn and letting Daryl come as close as he needs to be.

 

"You're not going to be abandoned no matter what you decide," Rick promises. He presses a dry, barely-there kiss to Daryl's knuckles without losing eye contact, smiling against the swell of them when the trainer's lips twitch. "This doesn't have to be the end of the world. It can be the beginning of a new one, instead. A chance to rise from the ashes as something better; something of your own choosing. No pain, no anger, no influence. It's you being your own man, without anyone trying to take that from you."

 

"Ya sound like a damn self-motivation book," Daryl huffs. He's only teasing, his pale eyes hidden by the night but still fixed unblinkingly on Rick.

 

"You sound like you feel better," Rick retorts with a smile. It gets him another laugh, and he chuckles as well before they let the silence settle like an old, familiar blanket. It's a comfort to both of them - they enjoy being able to say anything they need without pesky words getting in the way. Rick knows Daryl understands him when he tilts his head forward just a little, his eyes flicking down before meeting Daryl's unwavering stare again.

 

_May I?_

 

Daryl's response is the dip of his chin and the way his shoulders curl in. Rick reads him as easily as he would read the newspaper. He may not be able to understand horses the way Daryl does, but he can understand the trainer's body language between them loud and clear.

 

_Give me time._

 

"The others are still waiting for us," Rick murmurs. If the man needs time, he can have it. There's no rush, not for something like this - especially not with someone who already has such deeply-rooted insecurities. It breaks Rick's heart to see Daryl so unsure of himself to the point that he's not trying to hide it. He's desperate to help show him just how worthy he is. "Take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

 

Daryl nods and lets go with obvious reluctance, putting space between them and still staring like he's never seen anything like Rick before in his life. "Still want to meet them for drinks? It's up to you."

 

"Yeah, I'll come." Daryl nods stiffly and fumbles to pull out his cigarettes, bringing one to his lips with fingers that still tremble faintly. Rick watches him light the tip and inhale deeply, the cherry glowing brightly as it burns down the filter.

 

"You don't have to if you're not comfortable, Daryl. I think they'll understand."

 

"Yeah, well, good thing I wanna, then." Blowing out an impressive amount of smoke, the trainer rolls his head to the side and smirks at Rick. "Been hearin' 'bout these group meetings for months. Figure it's time I see what all th' hype's about."

 

There's not much Rick can say to argue with that, and certainly nothing he's inclined to try. He smiles instead and waits for Daryl to put a little more space between them before he pushes away from the wall and heads back toward the hotel. Daryl takes his usual spot behind Rick, only coming closer to offer the cigarette before falling back again.

 

"Next race is in about a month," he muses as they follow the path away from Churchill Downs. Rick nods and thinks of everything they'll need to get ready for it. Streak has already proved that she can run; that she can handle herself with the colts. The races are so close together though. The real test for her will be if she can build up the endurance to handle it.

 

"Yeah, it is," Rick agrees. He looks toward the setting sun, watching the way the shades of orange and dark violet paint the horizon and creep across the expanse of the sky in writhing tendrils. "Think she'll be ready for it?"

 

He knows the answer, even before he hears Daryl snort quietly. "She'll be more than ready. She's had a taste for it now. She's only gonna want more an' more."

 

"Think so?" Rick turns to look at Daryl, smiling when the trainer stops too close to be anything but deliberate. They share the air between them, their eyes dark with what they've both accepted. There's just enough suggestion layered in Rick's tone for Daryl to understand that he's not just talking about Streak anymore.

 

The man's eyes darken even further, his pupils dilating enough for Rick to know that they're on the same page. Daryl licks his lips quickly and swallows, clearly at a loss for what exactly he can say to that. Rick is patient, his hands tucked into his pockets and a smile on his face as he waits for Daryl to figure out what he's going to do.

 

"Down, boy," the trainer finally grunts. He's grinning shyly, his shoulders twitching up and his chin tilting down as he preens beneath Rick's attention and tries to hide from it at the same time. There's still that hopeful vulnerability; that hunger for all Rick is willing to give - which is more than Daryl is ready to handle right now.

 

With Lori, Rick was gentle and careful. She had always been a strong-willed woman, for as long as he'd known her, but she was so willowy and frail-looking. He'd always been afraid of hurting her, and he'd loved her too much for that - so he'd been careful.

 

With Daryl, Rick doesn't fear having to be cautious. There's a wildness in the man before him, a fire that burns strongly inside of him and a frame built to contain it. Daryl was built for the rough life he came from just as much as he was shaped by it, and it shows in every strong, solid line that makes up who he is.

 

Daryl is built for fast and rough, but it's not all he's good for. What burns between them is already as voracious as a wildfire, but it's tempered by a gentleness that Rick didn't have even with Lori. When they were married, it was always 'I love her, but I'll break her'. With Daryl, it's 'he can take it, but that doesn't mean he _has_ to'. It's an exhilarating thing to be aware of.

 

"We meetin' up with them're what?" Daryl finally asks. Rick shakes himself out of his thoughts and ignores the way his cheeks burn. The trainer doesn't say anything about it, so he smiles and nods in the direction of the hotel.

 

"I, for one, am fully intending to change into something more comfortable. After that, I'm all for toasting to Streak's victory and having a few too many."

 

"Same," Daryl agrees. "So let's do it, then. Lead th' way, Bigshot."

 

"Don't call me that," Rick laughs as they start walking again. Louisville comes alive at night in a way Rick isn't familiar with outside of Friday night drinks with the group. It reminds him of living in Atlanta, although the general feeling is not nearly as claustrophobic for him.

 

"Why not? Suits ya. Country boy an' his filly fresh off her first win. Sounds like ya got it made, ta me."

 

"You and Sasha get a cut of every purse, you know that. So it sounds like you're pretty well-off now, yourself," Rick mentions absently. Daryl stumbles, and it's instinct by now that has Rick turning to catch him before he loses his footing completely. "Are you okay?" he asks, looking the younger man over with a worried eye. "What happened?"

 

"Th' fuck ya mean, I get a cut?" Daryl sputters. He's got his balance again, but rather than moving away, he's pressing into Rick's hands - like a nervous dog looking for reassurance. It's not the first time Rick has compared Daryl to a canine in the privacy of his own mind, but it's not a derogatory thought. So many of the man's behaviors are similar to a beaten stray that Rick is desperate to sooth him and show him that not all human interactions will end in pain and disaster.

 

"You trained her," Rick replies easily as he rubs Daryl's arms and tries to calm down this newest surge of emotion. "By rights, and stated in the paperwork you signed when I hired you, you're entitled to a cut of the purse whenever Streak or any horse you train places well. Did you forget that part?"

 

"No," Daryl grumbles. "Must'a skipped over that shit. Jesus, ya really know how ta make someone stay, don' ya?" He shakes his head, but he's smiling just a bit in wonder, so Rick can't imagine that he's that upset about it.

 

"I like my employees to be happy and feel appreciated." Rubbing his thumbs against the inside of Daryl's biceps, Rick tries to ignore the strength he feels relaxed and waiting beneath his palms. "You all do damn good work. I want to make sure I do something to let y'all know that I'm grateful."

 

"How much was th' purse?" The trainer looks at him, ignoring the headlights of the passing cars that illuminate them. Rick knows that they're standing closer than two men who are just friends should be standing, but he can't bring himself to care when Daryl leans just a bit closer. Close enough for Rick to smell the hints of musky sweat and something that reminds him of peppermint.

 

It makes Rick think of their first conversation about the Iroquois Stakes, back when Daryl was handing him a sweating glass of water and muttering shyly about flavoring it with peppermint. The memory brings a smile to Rick's face, and he pulls Daryl into a hug that the younger man is clearly not expecting.

 

"I don't want to talk about money," Rick whispers against the dark, sweat-damp strands of hair sticking to Daryl's ear and covering it. "I want to have fun tonight. I want to celebrate. This'll be the first time you join us, on the first win of Streak's racing career. I'd say that's more than enough reason, wouldn't you?"

 

"Fuckin' sap." Daryl's voice is soft, but there's no mistaking how tightly he's hugging Rick as anything other than gratefulness. He's got so much to offer - more than he probably even realizes. Rick will never stopped being amazed at how incredible Daryl is without even recognizing it within himself. There's a beauty and light that seems to shine from him, something Rick very rarely sees in people outside of their small group. It's like their souls have all called out to one another. The tendrils of fate have brought them together the same way the thistle seed found Daryl because he had a wish to make. It found him because it was destined to. Likewise, they all found each other because they were destined to need one another.

 

Rick has always believed that family is more than just blood. Seeing how all of them are with each other - the love and care that flows between them like the connected threads that form a larger web - shows him just how true that statement is. All of them have come from such different walks of life, and yet they've all found one another through their shared love of horses. They support each other no matter what, and if one of them needs help, they all rush to offer whatever strength or support is needed, in whatever way is required.

 

If that's not family, Rick doesn't know what is.

 

\--

 

"Hey, Daryl!" Glenn calls loudly as soon as they walk in. Rick tries to hide his grin, because the groom is loud enough that multiple people turn to see who he's waving so emphatically at. Many of them recognize Rick and nod or lift their glasses in a toast. He nods gratefully to all of them, many who have been in the business for a lot longer than him. To be acknowledged for a horse as incredible as Streak, to be the one that such a horse has put her trust in, is one of the greatest feelings.

 

"Hey," Daryl mumbles with a shy wave. He's a lot calmer now, and looking more relaxed in his faded jeans and a threadbare shirt. This one has sleeves, surprisingly. It makes Rick wonder if the trainer is trying to look a little more put-together than usual because of where they are.

 

"C'mon," Rick says just loud enough for the younger man to hear. He leads the way, easing through the cluster of packed tables slowly so that Daryl doesn't get left in a pack of men and women he doesn't know. He can feel the trainer's quiet gratefulness without having to look, and his smile softens even though Daryl can't see it. The air between them shifts just slightly, the two of them feeding off of one another the way they've always seemed able to do; even back at the very beginning.

 

Bob pushes a chair out with one foot, gesturing with the hand not holding his glass. There's an empty one beside it, something Rick guesses was deliberate. He can't say he's not touched by their thoughtfulness, although only Maggie and Carol have made it outright clear that they are well aware of how things really are between Rick and Daryl.

 

Sure enough, as soon as they're sitting, Glenn pushes a dark brown bottle toward Daryl and leans forward with a wide grin. "That race today was incredible, man! Streak was like a bullet! When Sasha let her go... just, holy crap. I have never seen anything like that in my life."

 

"That jockey cursed my mother," Sasha adds with a grin. She's clean after her win on the track, the mud scrubbed from her cheeks and her eyes twinkling. "His fault for trying to cut our girl off. You should have heard her when that colt tried to trap us."

 

"I think I did," Rick laughs. Beside him, Daryl is quiet but not withdrawn. He's listening to the conversation and playing with the bottle Glenn gave him. He's rolling it between his palms, but he's not anxious the way he'd been around them at first. Even in a bar full of strangers, in a state far away from home, he's relaxed enough to enjoy himself. He's not saying much, but they're all used to it by now.

 

"So, what's next?" Bob leans against the table, close enough for his arm to bump Daryl's elbow. Neither of them move, and Rick presses his knee against the trainer's beneath the table; smiling when he feels Daryl return the nudge and taking a drink of the beer Maggie had nudged toward him when he'd sat down.

 

"Next race?" Daryl glances at Rick, chewing his lip thoughtfully. Rick really wants to reach over and thumb the man's lip out from beneath his teeth, but he knows it won't go over well at this point. Daryl must realize it, because he stops worrying his lip on his own and gives Rick a tiny, small smile. It's something the others don't notice, and Rick likes that. He likes having these private moments between them, even when they're surrounded by others. It makes what they have just that little bit more personal.

 

"Yeah, where do we get to go next?" Glenn wonders eagerly.

 

"I was thinking Belmont," Rick muses. Daryl glances at him curiously.

 

"Champagne?" he asks.

 

"It's either that or the Futurity," Rick agrees. He looks at Daryl fully, turning sideways in his chair so one of his knees ends up between Daryl's. No one comments on their closeness, all of them relaxing and waiting like their employer and the trainer being so close is nothing new. Which, when Rick really thinks about it, he guesses it's not.

 

The bar is packed full of people gathered around sticky tables, with beer flowing freely and the raucous  laughter drowning out the replays of the race on the television mounted above the bar. The interior of the building is dark paneled wood and horse paraphernalia in tasteful accents.

 

Despite the noise, despite the smell of stale beer and stale sweat and the close press of bodies around them, no one exists in the world for Rick when Daryl leans just a little bit closer. The rest of the world fades away, his vision tunneling until all he can see is bright, pale blue eyes hidden behind sweat-damp bangs. The trainer still doesn't have his Stetson, and it makes Rick wonder if he's left it behind out of a need to be polite, or if it's absence means something more significant.

 

"What do you think?" Rick murmurs, the words soft and intimate between the two of them. He wants to brush those dark bangs back so there's nothing hiding Daryl from him. He wants to reabsorb every inch of the man's features again and again, every day for the rest of his life.

 

As corny as it sounds, Rick wants every morning to begin with him drowning in pale blue eyes that remind him of clear Georgia skies. He wants that wildness contained and gentled as they curl up every night and drift off to sleep with the moonlight spilling across their tangled forms. Rick wants good morning kisses and heated, passion-filled nights, the two of them straining to be closer in every way they can as their mouths swallow their noises and their desire spirals to heights they could never have imagined.

 

Rick wants to love Daryl in ways he never loved Lori, and he wants to love him in all the ways he loved her, only better. He wants to give Daryl every single thing he never got to have, but he knows the trainer. He knows that will never be acceptable, because Daryl wants to work for every single thing he gets. He will never let Rick spoil him, because he's not that kind of man. And Rick loves him all the more for it, even if it's far too soon to say it so boldly.

 

"Think th' Futurity will be th' better choice fer her," Daryl finally replies. They haven't even been facing each other for five minutes, but Rick feels like he's been drowning in those blue eyes for hours. The words snap him out of his fantasies - because that's exactly what they are, and Rick knows it - and brings him back to reality abruptly. He blinks and scrambles to gather his thoughts to remember what the topic of conversation was, and Daryl watches him with those mesmerizing eyes that Rick swears darken slightly when he drags his teeth over his lower lip. It's a bit of a high to see just how responsive Daryl is to him, although Rick knows that Daryl could be reading the newspaper and he'd still find something attractive about it.

 

"You think so?" he murmurs once he's got some semblance of control back. Daryl nods, and just like that, it's settled. They turn back to the table, and Rick takes a long drink while trying to ignore Maggie's pointed stare. The woman looks ready to burst at the seams, but Rick will not give her the satisfaction of gossiping about his love life - or the possibility of one.

 

"So we're going to Keeneland?" Sasha asks. Out of everyone, she seems to be the calmest. Rick knows her adrenaline from the race was much more up-close and personal than theirs, considering that she was the one in the saddle at the time. Her giddiness from the win hasn't worn off in the slightest, but she's definitely a lot more relaxed than the rest of them are.

 

"That we are," Rick agrees. "She's already paid up, to be honest. It's just determining which she'll run, since some of them take place on the same days, but in entirely different places."

 

"So you think she really has a shot at the Triple Crown?" Glenn sets his beer down and crosses his arms on top of the table, leaning forward and lowering his voice needlessly. No one is paying any attention to them, and considering the noise level, Rick is amazed they can even hear each other.

 

"I _know_ she does," Daryl cuts in before Rick can reply. "Tha' filly was _made_ for th' Triple Crown."

 

To hear that kind of conviction, especially from Daryl, warms Rick's heart and makes a smile find its home on his face. As the night goes on, he notices just how much more the trainer watches him, those pale eyes bright with something he hasn't really seen before. It's not the hunger Rick has seen from him so often, and it's not the apprehension he never hopes to see again. This is something new, and yet already so familiar between them. It's as refreshing as a rainstorm and as deeply rooted as an ancient pine.

 

The force of what crackles between them can move mountains and shake the earth beneath their feet, and yet it's as sweet and fragile as magnolia blossoms - as beautiful as a wild horse running through the swaying grasses of a field. There are no words to adequately describe what is forming between them, none that Rick can put into words. He knows Daryl feels the same, and words were always seldom with them anyway. Their language is one spoken through looks, through the smallest twitches and the sharing of each cigarette.

 

As if Daryl has read his mind - which Rick wouldn't be surprised about - he pulls out his pack of cigarettes and slips a filter between his lips. He's already getting up before Glenn points to the closest No Smoking sign; glancing at Rick and tilting his head slightly in silent offer.

 

Rick takes his beer with him, more interested in the bitter flavor of the hops than the burn of the nicotine. He'll never pass up an opportunity to be with Daryl in any way he can, especially in a quieter setting. The noise level in the bar seems to be increasing as the hours pass and people consume more drink. Having even a few minutes of quiet is something Rick will gladly take right now.

 

They find a quiet corner outside, tucked away halfway down the alley beside the bar. Even with thick walls separating them, the noise from inside is muted but still present. It's more than enough of a break for Rick, and Daryl too. He can see it in the way the trainer's shoulders are already loosening; the tension bleeding from his frame until he's relaxed against the wall behind him and tipping his head back. Rick watches the line of his throat and the bob of his Adam’s apple, licking his lips before taking a drink.

 

"Gonna light that?" he asks when Daryl makes no move to look for his lighter. He sees one shoulder rise in a lazy shrug and smiles. "Not interested in smoking for once?"

 

"More interested in th' quiet," Daryl replies. He doesn't take the cigarette out of his mouth; working it between his teeth as he glances over at Rick. His eyes seem to glow in the meager lighting, just as captivating with artificial streetlight painting his features as he would be out in the middle of Georgia with nothing but the moonlight and stars to capture his beauty. He sees Rick's captivation and rolls his eyes. "Quit it. Ain't that interestin' ta gawk at."

 

"I disagree." Rick steps closer, his body blocking Daryl's from anyone who might pass by on the street and look down this particular dark alley. As they come closer, the trainer's breath hitches just slightly, his hands falling limply by his side to press against the brick wall he's leaning against. "I think you're the most incredible person I've ever seen in my life," Rick adds. He cups Daryl's cheek and brings their faces closer together, feeling each hot puff of quick breath that passes through the younger man's lips. "I think you're beautiful, and strong, and so much more than you ever give yourself credit for."

 

"My mom used ta say th' same shit," Daryl huffs. He presses closer, so warm and alive against Rick; leaning into the touches like a starving man seeking a warm meal.

 

"You callin' your momma a liar?" Rick teases. Their words are barely air, brushing like phantom kisses against each other's mouths as they gravitate closer until their noses are bumping. Daryl is looking at him, so close and so much more than Rick ever expected to be allowed to have.

 

"Nah, jus' you," the trainer quips. Rick feels the lips so close to his curl into a playful smile, and he can't take it anymore. He dips that last little bit forward, breaking the barrier, and Daryl sighs and settles against him as their lips slide together in slow, dragging kisses.

 

There is nothing on earth that Rick can think to compare to what kissing Daryl Dixon is like. It's like coming home - like warm, homemade apple pie and the satisfaction of a cold glass of sweet tea. It's the changing of the seasons and the rolling tides as they ebb and flow. The trainer is malleable against him, one arm wrapping around Rick's back while the other hand fists the front of his shirt. He cups both of Daryl's cheeks and angles his head to bring them even closer, his tongue brushing against the thin swell of the man's lower lip just to feel him tremble.

 

A soft sound escapes from Daryl, and Rick responds with a quiet noise of his own. His body feels like it's on fire, his palms hot and every inch of him prickling with a warmth that threatens to make him sweat through his clothes. He can feel the heat emanating from Daryl, and the cool breeze playing over what little skin they have bare makes them shiver and search each other for the warmth to combat it.

 

The first touch of their tongues makes them groan together. Rick is trying to hold back - the last thing he wants is for Daryl to feel too overwhelmed - but the trainer makes another sound that is so deep and rumbling and _eager_ that Rick forgets caution and presses the man harder back against the wall.

 

"Rick," Daryl pants as he pulls back just enough to gasp his name. Rick rumbles and presses closer, losing the rest of it in another kiss and feeling how beautifully Daryl reacts to him. He slides his hands back to tangle them in Daryl's hair the way he constantly longs to, and he feels the younger man arch against him before falling away. The hand burning a brand between his shoulderblades fists in his shirt and tugs insistently until Rick relents and steps away so they can breathe.

 

Daryl is a vision with his flushed cheeks and how glazed over his eyes are. His thin lips are swollen and wet; his mouth open as he pants for breath. He looks gorgeously wrecked and ready for more, but Rick waits as he catches his breath and watches Daryl recover. A small part of him growls with pride, an Alpha-male rumble of _I did that to him_. This isn't a competition though. This isn't a battle or a conquest. This is him and Daryl, together as equals, and Rick is determined to make sure he never makes it seem any different.

 

"Jesus," Daryl hisses as he rubs his hands roughly over his face. Rick watches him gather himself, aching for them to fall together again but waiting for the invitation. "You are way too fuckin' good at that." The trainer laughs and stares at Rick with dark eyes, his mouth hidden behind one hand while the other cups the side of his neck. "Where th' fuck did that cigarette even go?"

 

Rick laughs as well and glances meaningfully toward the dirty cement beneath their feet. The cigarette is ruined, crushed beneath one of their heels during their slow, heated kisses.

 

"Ah, damn it. Was one'a th' last in th' pack." Daryl doesn't sound too upset about it, and when Rick looks up he finds those pale, bright eyes still fixed on his face. "Ya owe me, Grimes," he grumbles.

 

"I'll buy you a damn carton if you let me keep kissin' you like that," Rick chuckles. He means is at a joke, but the noise Daryl makes in response makes him swallow thickly. "God, Daryl, you have no idea what you do to me, do you?"

 

"Prob'lly th' same as ya do ta me," Daryl admits with a quiet laugh. It's not what Rick was expecting, and he's stunned for a moment before he can recover enough to smile warmly. They drift closer again, one of Daryl's hands pressing against his chest uncertainly while Rick tangles his fingers in the man's hair.

 

"We should get back," he murmurs. Daryl looks frustrated, and Rick can understand why. He's not comfortable enough to be this tactile around others; he's barely comfortable with it just between the two of them. He hasn't had a lot of good experiences throughout his life, and it's done more damage than most people might be willing to try and fix.

 

Rick is not most people.

 

"Your mother," he murmurs, "what was her name?"

 

Daryl looks at him with a confused frown, clearly not expecting the question. "Amy," he replies quietly. His expression softens into an almost-smile. "Her given name was Ahyoka. It means 'She brought happiness.' An' she did. She really did, for me."

 

"That is a beautiful name." Rick runs his fingers through Daryl's hair and watches the way his touch relaxes the trainer until the wrinkle in his forehead smooths out and his eyelids are too heavy for him to keep open. Those hooded, pale eyes find his, and Daryl smiles tiredly.

 

"She was a beautif'l woman," he whispers. His sadness is a bittersweet thing, tinged with good memories of the woman that meant the world to him. "I was her Dyami. Her eagle. She always said I was too free ta be chained down. Always thought she was seein' more ta me than there was, y'know?"

 

"I think she saw exactly what was there," Rick disagrees with conviction. He presses a kiss to Daryl's forehead, smiling against the warm skin there. "Is that what the eagle is for?"

 

"Was her totem animal," Daryl nods. "Always said I was a miniature her, so my name had ta fit th' part."

 

"Who's the wolf?"

 

"Merle," the trainer huffs. "She always said we was more like pups than kids. S'his totem."

 

"What about the horse?" Rick rubs his thumbs against Daryl's cheeks, feeling the fragile skin beneath his eyes. He's amazed the younger man has tolerated their closeness for this long, but once the dam burst, he seemed to become ravenous for whatever contact he could get. Even when he needed a moment to breathe, he never went far.

 

"'S th' roots we grew from." Daryl tips his head back against the wall behind him - not pulling away, just settling in with a quiet hum. "Everythin' we are, everythin' we've done, came from th' horses. Did in my family, at least. Ev'ry decision, ev'ry action, ev'ry single thing came from th' roots we'd planted 'fore I knew any oth'r life."

 

As he talks, Rick watches the way Daryl changes subtly. His accent thickens, his voice dipping lower until he's almost humming the words like a song. The vibrations of it remind Rick of a chant, something ritualistic and rooted deep into the earth. It's a magic he's never seen, one he doubts many people would be familiar with, and it twined deeply into Daryl's core in a way that leaves him breathless from awe. Rick has never seen anything like it, and he's hungry to witness more.

 

"Nev'r knew nothin' outside'a th' wild herds m'mother watched," Daryl goes on after a moment. The words resonate from his vocal cords, vibrating past his lips and shuddering in the air between them. They hang with weight and carry purpose, striking deep inside of Rick and stirring a response from deep within his chest.

 

"Mustangs?" Rick asks quietly. Daryl hums, and within the layered sound Rick could swear he heard the quiet thunder of hoofbeats and the proud scream of an eagle.

 

"Wild beasts, free an' proud, nev'r chained by nothin' but th' territ'ry they made f'r themselves. Th' powerful stallions, th' leadin' mares - th' foals tha' was more m'friends than any human kid I knew. Grew up with all'a them. Miss 'em."

 

"They never left you, Daryl." Rick places his hand over the trainer's heart, feeling the heat and the slow, steady beat of it beneath his palm. The tempo is a slow, rhythmic dance; a cadence that matches with the hum crooning from Daryl's throat and ringing in Rick's ears like the scream of a stallion and the howl of a wolf.

 

It's entirely possible that he's imagining it, that he's just wrapped up in the moment with Daryl as the trainer sways back and forth. When he looks at those pale, hooded eyes though, he could swear he sees the tall, swaying stalks of grass beneath a clear Georgia sky; the bodies of horses moving slowly among them while a young child makes his way between the mares.

 

It doesn't even feel like they're in Louisville, Kentucky anymore. They're in the wilds of Georgia, the alley around them bleeding away to wide-open spaces and the quiet snorts of grazing horses. Rick feels soil beneath his boots instead of harsh concrete - smells sweet grass and dust rather than stale beer and smoke. He feels an ancient, wild presence settling deep into his bones, and when he looks at Daryl he sees the glow in those pale eyes; the same wild magic dancing through them that hums in his blood now as he touches something he's never experienced before.

 

Rick wants to hold it in his hands and study it. He wants to learn every facet and glimmer, wants to sink as deep as he can get and never come back out. He wants to press Daryl into the grass and kiss his devotions over every tanned inch of the man's long, lithe body. He wants Daryl to roll them; for Rick to roll them again until they're tussling and covered in the earth they came from. He wants them to be as free as the horses Daryl grew up with - as untroubled and carefree as that young boy had been until the cruelties of man had ripped it from him.

 

The song draws to a close, never loud enough to have traveled beyond the two of them. Rick watches the way Daryl brings himself from whatever place he'd sunken into. The magic of it fades slowly, but it doesn't leave completely. Rick is glad to feel it still coiling beneath the surface, whatever it may or may not have been.

 

"Jesus, Daryl," Rick breathes reverently as he cups the man's face and tilts his head back. "How could it have taken so long for anyone to see just how incredible you are?"

 

"Knowin' 'em ain't th' same as trainin' 'em," Daryl mumbles. He sounds even more tired now, like whatever he'd just done had taken energy and left him in need of a deep, comfortable sleep. "Spent all m'life 'round th' critters. All I knew was how they were, an' how m'daddy treated 'em. Didn't realize until I found them Monty videos that I could train 'em with what I knew of 'em."

 

"Because trainin' through pain ain't trainin'," Rick murmurs with a smile. He still remembers Daryl saying those words the first time he ever met Streak and learned some of her background. His eyes had burned like cold fire, his mannerisms gruff toward Rick but liquid and gentle toward his horses.

 

Knowing this now, Rick completely understands where his talent comes from. Daryl was raised with the horses by his mother. They were his family in a way people never were. Considering that, it's no wonder all animals take to him like he's one of their own.

 

It's incredible.

 

"Ready to go back inside?" Rick asks after several minutes spent in companionable silence. Daryl nods slowly, looking more awake than he had after he'd finished humming. Rick still isn't sure what, exactly, that was, but it was amazing to witness. He recognizes the amount of trust it must have taken for Daryl as well, and he can't help but press one last gentle kiss to the trainer's lips before stepping back and letting Daryl move away from the wall.

 

"Too damn good at that," Daryl snorts as they head back toward the main street. Rick's not entirely sure how long they've been gone, but it was definitely longer than it should have taken to smoke one or two cigarettes. The noise from the bar has barely quieted at all, even though it has to be creeping past midnight by now.

 

"You're rather talented yourself," Rick teases as they step back into proper lighting. It's much easier for him to see the faint hint of a blush on Daryl's cheeks now, and he grins when the trainer scoffs and looks away.

 

"Ain't a damn competition. Let's jus' get th' fuck back inside, 'fore they call a search party together."

 

"If you insist." Holding the door open, Rick waits for Daryl to pass him with a muttered _thanks_ before following him back inside. No one looks up from their drinks or breaks from a conversation to stare; no one even seems to notice as they weave their way back through the crowd until they can rejoin their group.

 

"Must have been one hell of a cigarette," Maggie teases as soon as they're close enough to hear her over the other patrons. Rick gives her a pointed look while Daryl hides behind the rim of his newest bottle.

 

"Best I've ever smoked," he replies with a smirk. It's worth it for the way her eyes widen before a pleased, Cheshire grin spreads across her face. Her eyes twinkle and her short, dark waves bounce as she rocks back in her chair with a delighted laugh.

 

"Menthol?" she asks innocently. Daryl huffs against the neck of his bottle and glares at them without any heat in his eyes.

 

"Fuck menthol," he mutters. Rick smiles even wider and squeezes the trainer's bouncing knee beneath the table. It's enough to calm Daryl's nerves, and he settles more comfortably next to Rick. He even manages a smirk of his own, although it's more a twitch of his lips and the subtle arch of an eyebrow.

 

"Fuck _somethin_ '," Maggie giggles into her own drink. Bob and Sasha chuckle when Daryl chokes on his next swallow, nearly spitting his mouthful across the table and onto Glenn. The young groom ducks with wide eyes, clearly expecting to take warm beer to the face, but Daryl manages not to lose any of it. Rick pats his back firmly as he coughs through his surprise, shaking his head when Maggie bursts into peals of laughter and slaps the table.

 

"Yer a fuckin' asshole," Daryl wheezes, but he's smiling as he says it. It's the first time he's openly smiled at any of them, and Rick watches with fondness as Maggie and Sasha immediately lean forward to get a better look.

 

"Pearly whites and everything," the jockey says playfully, resting her cheek in her palm and sighing wistfully as she looks at Daryl. "Anyone ever tell you that you're ridiculously gorgeous?"

 

"Stop," Daryl huffs. He rolls his eyes at her and leans back in his chair, trapping Rick's hand between his back and the wood until Rick can wiggle it free.

 

"So, Daryl," Maggie adds with a trickster's grin. Rick eyes her, wondering what game she's got up her sleeve this time. "You're a fine-lookin' man, and there are some fine-lookin' people in here." She gestures to the bar around them, and Rick bites his lip to keep from chuckling. "What's your type?"

 

"Ain't got no type," Daryl grumbles as he picks at the label of his bottle. His eyes dart toward Rick, shining with amusement he's trying to mask from the others.

 

"You sure about that?" Sasha presses. "You sure none of those ladies are catchin' your eye out on the dance floor?"

 

"Ain't my thing," the trainer says quietly. "Ain't much of a dancer, anyway."

 

"Oh, I bet you could be, if you had the right partner." Leaning back in her own chair, Maggie takes another drink of her beer and looks pleased with herself. Daryl shrugs and tilts his head forward, still playing with the label on the bottle.

 

"Maybe," he mumbles. "Never really tried ta find out."

 

Rick finds that piece of information intriguing, and he files it away for later. He's already learned that Daryl has very little faith in himself for most things, or at least no confidence in other people's acceptance of them. He's seen the man's pride when he's with the horses. With them, there is no hesitation or insecurity. With people, it's entirely the opposite.

 

It makes Rick want to coax Daryl into dancing with him. He wants to see the trainer swaying along to a beat from the radio, rather than his own warbling croons. He wants them pressed close together in Rick's kitchen, or the barn, or even out on the driveway. He wants to dance with Daryl in the pouring rain and kiss the droplets from his eyelashes while the thunder rumbles overhead. He wants to show his shy, wild trainer what real love is from someone who wants only the best for him.

 

Daryl's mother was an incredible woman, from what Rick has learned. She loved her sons very much, especially Daryl, and she taught him a respect for the world that Rick very rarely sees anymore. To see someone so in-tune with the nature all around him, and so connected to the animals under his care, is a breathtaking beauty Rick never expected to experience.

 

"Rick?"

 

Glenn's voice makes him look up, and he smiles sheepishly at being lost in his own thoughts again. "Yeah?" he asks as he finishes the last of his beer. Beside him, Daryl leans just a bit closer and offers his as well.

 

"Headin' out," the trainer explains as Rick takes the bottle with a nod of thanks and drinks the last of it. "Ya ready ta go?"

 

"I believe so," Rick agrees. He leaves the bottle with the rest and stands at the same time Daryl does. It's an instinctive, synchronized action between them, and Maggie smiles gently when she sees the way their shoulders overlap - Rick in front and Daryl just slightly behind him and off to the left, the way he always is.

 

"I'm ready ta head on home," she sighs wistfully. "Bein' cooped up in this city is makin' me miss the ranch somethin' fierce."

 

"I know exactly what you mean," Rick chuckles as he leads the way through the clusters of tables. The others follow after him, trusting him to guide them safely through the press of bodies the way that Rick leads them through everything else. He doesn't know if it's just because he's their employer, or if there's another reason they - especially men like Abraham Ford - choose to fall in line behind him and trust his judgement.

 

As they make it out onto the street, Rick turns just slightly and sees them come out one by one. They gather in a loose circle around him, with Daryl standing the closest and looking at him with those pale, beautiful eyes that Rick could swear he sees worlds in now.

 

"Time to go home," he says with a smile, and Daryl smiles in return; the tilt of his head and the dip of his shoulder offering Rick all the conformation he need as to where the trainer chooses to be.

 

_Wherever you go is home, so that's where I'll go too._

 

It's a faith Rick has never had placed in him so strongly before, and it speaks more of love than any pretty words actually could.

 

He's determined to never lose that, no matter what.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH LOOK IT'S THAT TIME AGAIN
> 
> Much, much thanks to katytheinspiredworkaholic, who helps me fix my mistakes and is just so goddamn great I am cry.
> 
> TIME FOR MORE (seriously slow burn) GAY LOVE!
> 
> This story is so very far from being done, y'all. I hope that's okay.

"Th' hell’re ya doin', woman!" Daryl shouts with a frustrated scowl. Rick winces at the loud bellow, rubbing his ear for show and glancing at the trainer leaning over the fence beside him. Daryl is up on the first rung, his boots planted firmly and his torso leaning over into the home track. His nails are digging into the wood, his Stetson abandoned in the dirt beside the closest post. The angle lengthens his chest and makes his shoulders bunch, and Rick has to remember to behave himself.

 

Sasha pulls Streak up a little too harshly, looking frustrated and hanging on tightly as the filly rears with a scream. She comes back down hard, her front hooves slamming into the loose soil of the track and her hind hooves lashing back as she bucks.

 

"Sasha!" Daryl shouts again, louder and impossibly angrier. Rick hadn't realized he could get any fiercer, but he's proven wrong and takes several large steps to the side to put some distance between himself and the angry trainer.

 

"What's her issue?" Sasha snaps as she tries to back Streak away from the gate and turn her to walk the other way. The filly resists with a furious squeal, her eyes rolling and her nostrils flaring widely as she blows out angry snorts. "Daryl!"

 

"Drop th' reins!" The trainer slaps an open palm against the fence, the thunk of it ringing hollowly and making Streak twist to look at him. Sasha drops the reins and gives the horse her head, and she takes off around the track. Rick winces as the jockey scrambles to keep herself from being thrown; fisting her hands in Streak's mane and trying to move with the filly as she zig-zags between the fences before skidding to a halt in front of them. She screams at Rick, jerking her head and biting at the bit so hard he's afraid she's going to hurt her teeth on it.

 

"Get off," Daryl barks. He's over the fence and grabbing the racing bridle before Sasha's even out of the saddle, pulling it off and working the bit from between Streak's teeth with a low, soothing croon. "There ya are, little devil," he whispers. He hooks the bridle on the post, and his fingers are already in the filly's mouth before Rick notices the smears of red on the metal of the bit.

 

"What the _hell_?" Swinging himself up over the fence, he joins Daryl and watches him feel around while Streak stands still. Her ears are back, but she's calm enough to let Daryl work until he hits the sore spot in her mouth and she jerks her head back with a grunt.

 

Daryl looks at the blood on his fingers with narrowed eyes, rubbing them together and chewing his lip before he grabs the bridle.

 

"Who wore this last?" he asks Sasha. She frowns and shakes her head, running a hand over her dark hair and tugging on her ponytail out of frustration.

 

"I think it was Slicker, to be honest," she replies. "Glenn had him out, and he probably grabbed the wrong bridle."

 

"That colt needs his own special bit, I swear," Daryl grumbles. He looks at Rick and holds up the bridle, turning it so Rick can see the joints where the bit comes together. At first, Rick isn't sure what he's looking for, and then he sees the rough spot where the colt has chewed too hard. Stepping closer, he rubs his thumb against the sharp burr of metal and hisses when a thin line of blood wells up against the sharp tip.

 

"No wonder she fought so hard." Shaking his head, he turns to rub Streak's muzzle and coax her to open her mouth. The cut on her tongue is long and thin, and still leaking blood slightly. "Good thing we found it now, as shitty as it must have been for her."

 

"I'll talk ta Glenn," Daryl mutters as he hooks the bridal back over the nearest post. "From now on, everyone wears their own bridles when trainin', an' Slicker needs somethin' he can chew tha' won't break. Fuckin' colt's got th' Jaws of Life in his mouth, I fuckin' swear."

 

"It was an honest mistake," Sasha points out. Daryl nods and cups a hand around the back of his neck, deflating with a rough sigh. Rick's fingers itch with the desire to rub those strong shoulders and work out some of the tension until the trainer is putty in his hands, but he knows that won't go over very well yet.

 

It's been two days since they came home from Kentucky, all of them still buzzing with triumph from Streak's first ever race - and her first win. Abraham and Carol had met them in the driveway to offer their congratulations. They'd watched the race as it happened, and Abraham had been so proud it was almost as if Streak was his filly instead of Rick's.

 

Now, it's been two days. Two days of working side by side with Daryl and remembering the feel of the man's lips against his. Two days of the two of them sharing longing, heated glances without taking a quiet moment to do something about it. Rick has tried to share every single cigarette he can with Daryl, just for the faint flavor of the trainer left behind on the damp filter as they passed it back and forth. He likes to think he's a patient man, but Daryl is enough to tempt any man, even if he was a monk.

 

It would be harder if he did most things on purpose just to tease Rick, but he _doesn't_. He's so naturally graceful and alluring in almost everything he does - even when he's covered in mud from the track, or flipping open his pocket knife to cut through the twine of a new bale of hay. No man should look that gorgeous with his hair matted from grime and sweat; with more smears on his face that look like he's just dipped his hands in the muddy creek and used his skin as a canvas to paint.

 

Even now, with his hair flattened by sweat and his pale eyes glittering as he uses the lead rope to make a makeshift halter for Streak, he's gorgeous without even knowing. He's completely focused on the task, the tip of his tongue pressing out of the side of his mouth, and Rick can't decide if he wants to kiss Daryl more or bite down that strong, tan throat until the skin is littered with the marks of Rick's passion. He wants to feel Daryl tremble against him the way he had in that dark alley in Louisville. More than anything, he wants to kiss Daryl and share a moment between just them.

 

Since they've gotten back, they've barely had time for any kind of relaxation, let alone stolen kisses behind the barn. With the next race less than a month away, they're taking every spare moment to come up with a plan for how Streak can win the Futurity. Winning the Iroquois Stakes got her name into all the right mouths, but Rick knows there's a difference between coming out in a blaze and keeping it burning rather than dying away. He's seen and heard of so many promising racehorses falling out of the spotlight for various reasons. Rick would prefer to keep his filly going strong and only gaining speed, rather than losing it.

 

Streak takes the makeshift halter without a fuss and follows after Daryl. The trainer glances at Rick, something promising but muted flashing in his eyes before he hands over the lead and looks away. Streak doesn't react to being handed off aside from a nuzzle against Rick's shoulder. He feels the warmth of her breath through his plaid overshirt and smiles at a gesture he'd waited so long for. He feels like he's waited her whole two years of life to see the filly so relaxed, and he owes every bit of her progress to the man walking just slightly behind him.

 

Daryl's fingers brush against his, the action hidden from Sasha by Streak's bulk, and Rick tries not to smile too wide as he reaches back deliberately. He catches Daryl's fingers before they can fall away, holding on for a moment and squeezing gently before letting go. He reads Daryl's _I'm sorry_ loud and clear, and eases the younger man's mind with a gentle reassurance.

 

 _Nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart,_ he thinks as they head back toward the pasture to turn Streak out. It's the first time the endearment has popped into his head, and he chews on it for a moment. It spreads through him like a familiar, comforting warmth - wrapping around him like a perfect summer day and soothing him like he's sinking into a warm bath. It feels so perfect to think of Daryl in that way - sweetheart, darling; my fleeting, shy eagle.

 

_My free, wild sky._

 

Daryl makes a quiet noise from behind him, and Rick stops to look back curiously. The trainer is watching him with shaded eyes that hide nothing anymore, wide and bright behind the tumble of bangs that guarded and hid him for so long.

 

"Got somethin' f'r her tongue, 'fore ya turn 'er out," he mumbles. His voice drops and thickens, but it doesn't vibrate the way it had a few night ago, hidden away from prying eyes and sharing something Rick still fully believes was some kind of magic. "Wait here while I grab it?"

 

"Of course," Rick promises with a smile. Sasha leaves them to take the bridle back to the tack room, where she'll probably leave a note that it's not to be used until Abraham can fix it. Sometimes, Rick wonders how he got lucky enough to find a farrier that doubles as a fully-equipped blacksmith. The redheaded man is capable of making a lot more than just shoes; if anyone can find a solution and fix the bit, it'll be him.

 

"Lemme grab it." With one last quick glance, Daryl turns and strides toward the barn. Rick leans against Streak's shoulder and feels the filly brace herself to take his weight. He can't help but watch Daryl as he takes the steps that go up against the side of the barn two at a time, vanishing through the door that leads to his scarcely-used apartment and leaving the door open. He's back out in less than half a minute, coming down the stairs just as quickly and jogging back to where Rick is waiting and watching.

 

Buck appears from inside the barn, probably drawn by the sound of footsteps up in the second story. The heeler lopes across the driveway toward them, his head up and his brown eyes bright with something Rick recognizes as curiosity.

 

"What is that?" he asks as Daryl coaxes Streak's mouth open and smears something that looks like dark green gunk across the cut on her tongue.

 

"Poultice," Daryl replies distractedly. "Made from herbs 'round th' farm I been pickin'. It'll help th' wound ta heal fast an' nice; keep out infection, protect it from whatever. She'll eat most'a it 'fore she's down th' chute, since s'in her mouth, but it'll do th' job. I'll put s'more on her lat'r."

 

Rick watches Streak work her jaw and lick her lips at the taste of the poultice. She sneezes on Daryl, who laughs and scratches her nose until her upper lip curls and presses against his palm. It's the funniest face Rick has ever seen her make, and he's still trying to stifle his chuckles as Daryl opens the gate for him.

 

"What kind of face was that?" He laughs again and pulls Streak's makeshift halter off, giving her neck a fond pat before stepping out of the way and letting her race down the chute in a thunder of hooves and the sounds of dirt clods hitting the fences on either side.

 

"Stank face," Daryl chuckles. He rubs the side of his wrist against his mouth and sniffs with a grin, looking at Rick with twinkling eyes. "Tryin' ta scratch an itch, or jus' 'cause th' stuff on her tongue prolly tastes worse'n piss. She'll get over it when she realizes it'll help."

 

"Did your mother teach you how to make that?" Swinging the gate shut, Rick unwinds the rope halter and loops the lead rope around his shoulders. For once, Daryl leads the way back to the barn, his shoulders rolling in a smooth shrug and his head dipping as he nods.

 

"Yeah. Taught me a lot'a stuff like that. Salves, rubs, fuckin' _teas_. How ta flavor shit nat'rally an' make it actually taste good."

 

"Like peppermint water?"

 

Daryl shoots him a look, but Rick smiles and shifts just a little bit closer. "I'm not makin' fun of you," he promises. Daryl loses the hint of tension he'd gained from the comment, and his smile is small but sincere.

 

"Yeah, like peppermint water," he huffs. He's looking at Rick like he can't believe he's real - like Rick is the miracle in human form when the truly incredible one is Daryl himself. Daryl looks at Rick like he's the reason for the sun rising and the stars twinkling - like a wave of his hand will bring the rolling thunder and cleansing rains. The expression of awe is damn near worshipful, and Rick doesn't think he's done nearly enough to warrant such a look being aimed his way. It brightens Daryl's whole face, lighting him up in a way few things aside from the horses seem capable of.

 

 _God, I think I already love you,_ Rick muses as he cups one warm, stubble-rough cheek. Daryl doesn't flinch away, not like he once did. All the answer Rick could ever need shines from those pale eyes, and he has to brush the dark bangs back to see it unhindered. It's the most beautiful thing to him - the most fragile, precious gift anyone has ever given him in all his years.

 

"Rick," Daryl breathes quietly. It's more of an exhale of air with his name wrapped reverently around it, and Rick feels it tickle against his bare forearm.

 

"Two days, Daryl," he murmurs just as softly. "May I?"

 

It's all he needs to say, because if anyone understands him without Rick needing to talk himself hoarse, it's Daryl. So few words ever need to be spoken between them for them to understand each other. Rick can read the trainer's answer in the subtle tilt of his head and the way his body loosens from the taut, ready coil Daryl always seems to be. Even when he's relaxed, there's an air of alertness that hovers thickly around him. Right now, Rick is watching it disperse on the breeze as he leans just a little bit closer and inhales when Daryl exhales; breathing the man deep into his lungs and smiling as he watches those ever-watchful eyes rest for a moment behind closed eyelids.

 

Rick presses a gentle kiss above one, and then the other, feeling the way the thin, delicate eyelashes flutter against his skin. It's a faint tickling sensation that he will never get tired of; he knows he'll never get tired of the way Daryl's breath always catches expectantly whenever Rick gets close enough.

 

They sway together the way they already seem to do so easily, the press of their lips gentle and chaste. Rick cups both sides of Daryl's face - feels the trainer's hands settle on his sides and smiles against Daryl's lips. He feels them twitch in response, shy and seeking, and it's a request that Rick will never deny the younger man.

 

They pull back with soft sighs, and Rick can't help but nuzzle the side of Daryl's nose sweetly before giving the trainer his space. He's turning toward the house when Daryl grabs him again, and he's surprised by the sudden franticness of the younger man. Daryl presses as close as possible and kisses Rick until the world spins and his head goes fuzzy.

 

Turning them, Rick walks Daryl back until he's up against the fence. The arch of his body is breathtaking, his eyes dark from growing desire and his nails digging into Rick's sides through his shirts. It's the bravest he's been yet, and Rick is powerless to do anything but press hot, eager kisses to that wet, enticing mouth. Daryl makes a noise that reminds Rick of one of Buck's low rumbles; the thin pitch of a whine mixed in until it's something that makes Daryl gasp against him when Rick's lips move away from his mouth and down the sweat-damp line of his throat. Rick licks over the trainer's Adam's apple and bites it gently, driven by a boldness that's new between them and fueled by the quiet sounds spilling from Daryl's lips like water overflowing - a surge of bubbling emotions held back until the banks swelled and ran over.

 

"Fuck, Rick," he pants, and Rick kisses him again, tasting musk and smoke and a hint of spice. Daryl opens for him beautifully, their tongues meeting in their own embrace when Rick angles his head and presses deeper. Daryl groans and nips at his lip; the quick pulse of pain making Rick pull back and lick the sore spot before he smiles.

 

"Where'd that come from?" he asks. "Not that I'm complainin' at all. I just wasn't expecting it."

 

"Felt like it, s'all," Daryl mumbles; shy and reserved as if he's done something wrong by taking the initiative. He wipes his mouth and licks his palm, not even seeming to realize just what that does to Rick. He's so innocent about it, so completely unintentional in everything he does. It still ends up being so alluring that it makes Rick want to pin him against the fence again and really give him a reason to moan.

 

He refrains with effort, wiping his mouth and feeling the pleasant tingle as his calluses scrape against the sensitive skin. It makes him shiver; quickens his breathing until he brings himself back under control and he can smile at Daryl without feeling like a lion stalking his prey.

 

"I won't say no to you being spontaneous more often," Rick rumbles. He doesn't mean for it to come out so low and deep, but watching the way Daryl's shoulders twitch - seeing the way he bites into his lower lip and clenches his fists - is more than enough testament that Rick's not the only one wholly affected by what's between them.

 

"Call it a bit'a pre-race luck," Daryl huffs with a sarcastic scowl. He follows it with a smile, making a liar out of himself when he glances at Rick through his shaggy bangs and smiles even wider. "We makin' dinner or what?"

 

"I suppose we could," Rick agrees. He leads the way back to the house, waving at Carol when he sees her coming around from the back porch to meet them.

 

"You two boys look awfully happy for just turning that filly out," she teases them good-naturedly. Rock takes it in stride with a smile, and Daryl snorts at the grey-haired woman.

 

"Mind yer own business," the trainer quips back playfully. Carol laughs and props her fists on her hips, shaking her head at them.

 

"Y'all are gonna be nothin' but trouble between every race, I can already tell."

 

"You comin' ta this'un?" Daryl asks. Rick can see the hope he has that his friend will join them at the track, and he looks at Carol curiously to see what her answer will be. He would love for her to experience it with them, and he can tell by the twinkle in her eyes that Carol has no intention of missing out.

 

The woman beams at both of them and nods. "We've already worked out a rotating schedule for who gets to go along for each race. This time, the kids can stay home. Abraham and I want to come."

 

"So long as I don't have to break up any tussels," Rick teases. "I'm gettin' too old to be wadin' into the mess you'd all be if you had to fight for the right to go along."

 

"Ya ain't old," Daryl huffs beside him. Rick feels the barest brush of fingers against his hand and tilts his head back to hide most of his smile from Carol's knowing eyes.

 

"I'm somewhat old," he argues. He's grinning as he says it, and it warms his heart to see the way Daryl rolls his eyes.

 

"Yeah? Thirty-five ain't old."

 

"Guess it wasn't, when I actually was thirty-five," Rick agrees. Carol is hiding her quiet laughter behind her hand, and Daryl looks at him with a confused frown. Those pale eyes glide over his features like the trainer is trying to gauge by looks alone, and Rick enjoys the warm, pricking thrill that spreads through him as slowly as hot molasses at the intensity in that searching gaze.

 

"I'm forty-five, Daryl," he finally says, and the way the younger man's jaw goes slack from surprise is flattering for several reasons.

 

"Yer shittin' me," Daryl scoffs in disbelief. "Ain't no fuckin' way."

 

"I'll take the compliment," Rick laughs. "Thanks, darlin'."

 

He says it without thinking, the endearment that's been tumbling around in his mind with all the others slipping free before he can even think to stop himself. Daryl freezes and looks at him with eyes that remind Rick of a deer stalled in front of headlights - wide and panicked, but too unsure of what to do to get out of the way in time to avoid disaster.

 

In this case, there's no life-threatening impact. Neither one of them should be damaged irrevocably by one small, intimate endearment. Rick steps closer, watching Daryl with the same care he sees the trainer watch his horses. He moves slowly and croons low in his throat; reaching out slowly to touch one bare bicep and feeling the way the muscles twitch beneath his fingertips.

 

"Hey," he murmurs gently. Daryl follows him with eyes that are so fragile and hopeful, begging for things he can't make his throat work enough to say. Rick comes even closer, silently thanking Carol for staying quiet and turning to give them the illusion of privacy. There's not much they can do about the rest, considering that they're standing at the bottom of the porch steps. It's enough for now though, and Rick, for one, sees no need to hide just how much he drowns in the beauty of the man in front of him.

 

"Why'd ya," Daryl murmurs unevenly before stopping. He swallows and tries again, and Rick waits patiently. He holds onto the trainer's arms gently, showing that he's not trying to pen Daryl in and remove the option to bolt if that's what he feels he needs.

 

Eventually, Daryl swallows again and rasps, "Why'd ya say that?"

 

"Because it's true," Rick whispers. He rubs his thumbs against Daryl's biceps, feeling the faint tremble running through him. "God, Daryl, you're too incredible for words sometimes, y'know that? Every moment I'm with you, it's like a new sunrise that's even better than the one before it. You can't tell me you don't see it."

 

"I do," Daryl rasps. "Don' fuckin' know _why_ ya think it, but shit, I..."

 

"Don't." Pressing their foreheads together, Rick smiles and closes his eyes. "If you're uncomfortable with it, I'll stop. I'll wait as long as you need me to, Daryl, believe me. There's nowhere I'd rather be than wherever I get to be with you."

 

Carol leaves silently, her watery smile showing just how proud and happy she is of the both of them. She doesn't even whisper goodbye, too afraid to shatter the moment between them. Rick appreciates the sentiment, and Daryl seems too lost in the cocoon they've wrapped themselves in to even notice.

 

"I'm gonna make ya mad," the trainer whispers.

 

"Maybe. I guarantee I'll piss you off more than once, too." Smiling so hard his cheeks ache, Rick chuckles softly. "Try again."

 

"Yer gonna get sick'a me."

 

"Impossible, but good try."

 

"Th' fuck, Rick. What d'ya _want_ from me?"

 

"The same thing I've always wanted." Rick tilts Daryl's face up, brushing the bangs back from his bright eyes before kissing him softly. "I want whatever you feel comfortable giving, Daryl. No tricks, no lies, no bullshit. Whatever pace you need, darlin', is perfect for me. I'm not goin' anywhere, not as long as you want me by your side."

 

"God, you're way too fuckin' good with words." Daryl shakes his head with a quiet sigh, the sound nothing more than a puff of disbelieving air. He presses his forehead against Rick's again, his breath warm and his eyes closed. "This has been th' best fuckin' year I can ev'r remember havin', ya know that?"

 

"It's been my best too," Rick agrees. "Seems like it's just going to keep gettin' better, too. And I'm perfectly okay with that."

 

"Yeah," Daryl laughs. It's soft and sweet and it reminds Rick of honeysuckle and sweet, wild berries. "Me too."

 

\--

 

Streak crosses the finish line two lengths ahead of the next horse in the Futurity. The screams of the crowd are deafening as they cheer her on, and the interviews and pictures that follow leave Rick both elated and exhausted. His filly is already the talk of the racing industry, with people wondering how far she'll go, and if her determination to run will end her career in the same tragic way it ended her sire's.

 

The weeks blur together, their lives revolving around preparing for the Juvenile Cup race and watching Streak grow more impatient for the thrill of the run. That's when she truly comes alive; when Sasha loosens the reins and gives the filly her head, and the two of them blur down the track and thunder across the finish line to the triumphant roars of the onlookers.

 

What little time Rick has outside of the truck cab and unfamiliar hotels revolves entirely around Daryl. The trainer seems to come alive in an entirely new way as Streak racks up the points she needs and they inch closer to their goal of the Derby. He smiles more, he laughs easier, and overall, he seems lighter and less hesitant about the growing intimacy between them. They haven't gone any farther than kissing, but Rick isn't in any hurry. When Daryl is ready, Rick will be waiting. Until then, he's more than happy to let the trainer set the pace between them.

 

Daryl knocks his shoulder up against Rick's during the Breeder's Cup Juvenile. He stays close, white-knuckling the seat in front of him and muttering under his breath. His eyes follow Streak as the racers approach the final curve, his nails digging into the seat.

 

"C'mon," he mutters, and Rick reaches over to free one of the trainer's hands. Daryl nearly crushes his fingers until Rick starts rubbing his thumb over the back of the man's knuckles. After that, he relaxes his grip, but doesn't let go.

 

"Now," Rick breathes, and Sasha let's Streak have her head, almost like the jockey heard his whispered sigh on the wind.

 

As soon as Streak feels the tension release, she leaps forward and nearly goes up over the back of the colt that jerks out in front of her. Sasha yanks her head to the side, the filly's enraged scream echoing through the stadium and crystal clear over the bellows of the crowd.

 

"No!" Daryl shouts. Rick sucks in a quick breath as he watches Streak snake her head at the colt before kicking her hind hooves up and dropping her head. Rick almost swears he can feel her rage as she weaves toward the front of the pack.

 

A dark bay colt is shoulder to shoulder with her thirty yards from the finish line. Rick can see the power of the lighter horse, his muscles coiling smoothly beneath his coat and his neck fully extended as he puts his all into it. The announcer is shouting in an attempt to be heard over the crowd, but his words are muddled. In comparison, Rick is completely silent, and Daryl is crooning a soft, echoing melody low in his throat.

 

Streak loses her patience and lunges, pulling ahead and ripping past the finish markers half a length in front of the colt. Rick feels himself start to breathe again, and he watches Sasha try to slow the filly to a walk to cool her down.

 

Streak fights it, still too wound up from the close finish. She churns up the track and spins in tight, angry circles, giving Sasha no choice but to hold on or get thrown off. Riders and ponies are coming in to try and get the filly under control, and Rick is almost certain that this is going to end in disaster.

 

Daryl's down the steps and vaulting over the fence before Rick realizes the man isn't beside him anymore. He follows quickly, no longer quite as proficient at jumping hurdles as he used to be. He's not as graceful as Daryl, but he doubts anyone really is. He gets over the fence regardless and ignores the sound and feel of fabric ripping down his leg as he pushes his way through the gathering crowd of humans and horses. He gets to Streak in time to see Daryl grab her bridle and bring the filly back to the ground from where she's reared onto her hind hooves. With her size, and those massive hooves, anyone that gets too close is going to get seriously hurt. Daryl has no fear though, hanging on stubbornly and whispering to the filly until Streak stops trying to yank him off the ground with her.

 

"Tha's it, little devil," he's crooning when Rick gets within earshot. He watches Daryl stroke down Streak's face, his graceful fingers gliding over the silk of her racing mask. Her sides aren't heaving as badly anymore, her nostrils still flaring as she blows out loud snorts, but Daryl's presence and his gentle voice are working.

 

"She's got quite a case of racing fever," a man comments. Rick looks over at him and nods, smiling and motioning to the riders that everything is under control. Once Streak is calm enough, she lets Sasha lead her off the field without a fuss, her coat slick with sweat and her head held high. There's still a wild anger in her eyes when Rick looks at her, but the feral light that had been there before is mostly contained now. She's not at all happy about being blocked by the colt in the race, or nearly being overtaken by the other one. It's amazing just how much personality she has; Rick wonders how today will end up driving her actions from now on.

 

"You plannin' on breedin' her?" the same man asks again. He's tall and broad, a black man with dark, soulful eyes and a smile that looks like it doesn't quite belong on his face. It's so gentle and sweet, and completely at odds with his broad forehead and heavy brows.

 

"Maybe someday," Rick replies distractedly. Daryl is waiting for him by the entrance to the tunnel, watching him interact with the man. Nothing else is important when the trainer is watching him with those captivating eyes - least of all a man he doesn't know.

 

"Sasha did good with her."

 

 _That_ makes Rick pause. He turns to look at the man again and frowns thoughtfully. The longer he looks, the more he can see hints of Sasha's features in the man's face. They're more masculine, but that smile - lips pulled back and white teeth showing, with the twinkling eyes - is almost a perfect replica of the jockey's grins.

 

"Brother?" he guesses. The man nods and rubs the back of his head with a sheepish look.

 

"Don't think she even knows I'm here, honestly," he chuckles. "Saw that race though. That's a damn good filly you've got. I thought Gypsy Dancer had her, for a minute. She's somethin' else."

 

"Thanks," Rick smiles. He shakes the man's hand and glances toward where Daryl is still waiting. The trainer looks curious, but not concerned. Returning his attention to the giant of a man in front of him, he finally manages to remember his manners. "Rick Grimes. It's nice to meet you."

 

"Tyreese Williams," the man - Tyreese - introduces himself. "It was nice to meet you, Rick. I should get goin' before my boss comes lookin' for me. Tell my sister I said hi?"

 

"I can do that," Rick promises. Tyreese smiles that innocent smile again. It makes Rick think of a child's smile, something young and sweet that should be out of place on such severe-looking features. It seems to fit Tyreese though, and Rick finds himself still smiling when he finally joins Daryl.

 

"Who's that?" They walk through the tunnel together side by side, rather than their usual way. Rick can't deny the thrill he feels at having Daryl by his side instead of behind him. It gives him an excuse to look at the other man without having to look over his shoulder to maintain eye contact.

 

"Sasha's brother, Tyreese. He asked me to tell his sister he says hi, and he was complimenting us on Streak."

 

"That's a big man," Daryl says with a shake of his head. "Wouldn't wanna make him mad on a bad day." He looks down, and Rick watches his eyebrows jump. "Holy hell, what'd ya do ta yer pants?"

 

Rick glances down at his ruined slacks and sighs. He's managed to rip one pant leg from mid-thigh all the way down to his shin, and with the type of material the slacks were made with, he knows that trying to sew it isn't going to work. He'll have to get rid of them, or give them to Carol to see if she can get any use out of the fabric that's still good.

 

"Not all of us can jump a fence like it's an Olympic sport," he huffs playfully. Daryl grins and bumps their shoulders together, his fingers warm against the inside of Rick's wrist when they press against it. The younger man is still too shy to hold Rick's hand, but he's found creative and arguably more intimate ways around his nervousness. All that matters to Rick is having Daryl by his side. Anything else is just a bonus.

 

"Maybe ya should lay off th' pizza an' wings," Daryl teases back as they make their way the short distance from the tunnel to the barn. It's just as busy as it was the first time they came to Churchill Downs. This time, though, Rick isn't interested in squeezing around a sticky table in a crowded bar.

 

He's got something else in mind for this evening.

 

"Sasha," he calls as soon as they get close enough to Streak's stall. The filly is already cooled down and buried in her feed. When she hears Rick's voice she whinnies, and a few colts answer her back before they all return to their suppers.

 

"Yeah?" The jockey comes out into the aisle and shuts Streak's door behind her. She's already changed back into her regular clothes, her hair falling freely around her narrow, cat-like features. Looking at her, he can see small hints of Tyreese in the turn of her mouth and her dark eyes, although on her they're softer.

 

"I ran into your brother, Tyreese. He asked me to tell you he says hi."

 

"Tyreese?" Sasha smiles, and there, at least, Rick completely sees the resemblance between them. "I wonder if he's still here."

 

"He might be, if you want to go and find him, we'll finish up here. Glenn and Maggie already left to go celebrate, I'm guessing."

 

Sasha grins. "Yeah, they did. Don't worry, they got everything done first."

 

Rick nods and bids Sasha a good night before stepping up to Streak's stall. She lifts her head from her bucket and looks at him. Her dark eyes are large and doe-like, her ears forward and trembling. He reaches through the bars to pet her and smiles when she sighs against his palm.

 

"Such a big beauty, ain'tcha, little devil." Daryl rests his head between two slats, one arm above his head and resting against the door while he traps the other between his chest and the wood. He's a tall man, although Rick is slightly taller, but both of them look small next to the filly. She's at least 17.2 hands, just like her dam, but Rick still feels like she's going to get bigger than Business. When she's fully grown, he bets she's going to be just as big as Devil, and he can't wait to see her then.

 

That day is in the future, however, and Rick is currently fully invested in the present - especially where Daryl is involved. Turning to the trainer, he smiles and tilts his head to get those pale eyes focused on him.

 

"I was thinking of taking a walk after I change. Would you like to come?"

 

"Sure," Daryl mumbles. "We stickin' ta th' town or are we goin' further out?"

 

"I figured I'd wait and see where the wanderlust takes us." Smiling, Rick gives Streak a good night treat and leaves her to her rest. He and Daryl make their way out of the barn and across the lawn, heading back towards the hotel they've chosen to stay in. It's nice, and clean, and the staff is very friendly toward all of them. Rick likes it.

 

The elevator ride to their floor is quiet, both of them enjoying the comfortable silence they can maintain as easily as conversation. Daryl leans harder against him during this moment of privacy than he would otherwise, relaxing with one of Rick's arms around him and kissing back softly when Rick kisses him first.

 

"C'mon, darlin'. I wanna get out of these ruined pants."

 

"Yer fault for tryin' ta jump a fence ya ain't got no business jumpin'," Daryl snorts. He follows Rick regardless, hesitating in front of the door until Rick swings the door open and motions for him to go first.

 

"Be that as it may, I'm not really interested in going for a walk with part of my boxers visible to the world." Rick's already unbuckling his belt before the door is closed, thinking nothing of it. He just wants to get out of the ripped slacks and into his favorite pair of blue jeans.

 

Daryl makes a sound, and Rick turns to look at him. He realizes, way too late, that he didn't ask Daryl or warn him. Thankfully all he has off is his belt, but he's still opening his mouth to apologize when he actually _looks_ at the trainer.

 

Daryl's eyes are wide and dark, his mouth slightly open and wet from dragging his tongue over his lips. Rick can see the flush crawling across his cheeks, and he swallows thickly at how unmade the younger man already looks when Rick wasn't even intending to make this a sexual thing.

 

"Are you okay?" he asks, trying to keep from rumbling the question.

 

"Ya fuckin' with me?" Daryl hisses through his teeth, looking hungry and lost as his eyes drop to where Rick's belt is hanging open. "Th' fuck, Rick."

 

"I'm sorry, I should have warned you, or asked if you'd be okay with me changing in front of you." Taking a deep breath, Rick gathers himself and goes to dig his jeans out of his suitcase. "I'll change in the bathroom."

 

"Jesus." Groaning, Daryl rocks back onto his heels and bites his lower lip, squeezing his eyes shut and looking lost in thought. Rick turns away to give him the illusion of privacy to gather himself, but it doesn't last long. He feels Daryl coming closer even though he doesn't hear the drag of boots over carpet; smells sweat and musk and dirt and stands slowly as the trainer's closeness warms his back. Rick isn't sure if it's real or imagined, but the heat radiating from Daryl makes his mouth dry and his blood roar.

 

Turning around slowly with the jeans in one hand, Rick comes face to face with Daryl. He gets to see how he affects the man up close and personal, and he takes it in hungrily. The blush is a dark, tempting red, and Daryl's lips shine from saliva in the light.

 

"Daryl," Rick rasps. "Be sure."

 

There's a whole lot of things behind those two words, and Daryl hears them as clearly as if Rick has just rattled off a list out loud. The trainer hesitates and looks away, the angle of his head offering the tempting line of his neck.

 

"Ain't a tease," he mutters, and Rick's heart melts. He backs Daryl against the closest wall and cups his face before sliding his hands into the trainer's thick, dark hair.

 

"I know," he promises. He kisses Daryl, taking his time because they're finally alone and free to take it at whatever speed they want. No one is going to come looking for them, no one needs either of them for anything urgent - this time is _theirs_. "I know, sweetheart, trust me. You aren't a tease, but you aren't ready yet, either. If anyone was a tease tonight, it was me."

 

"God, stop bein' so fuckin' _polite_ ," Daryl spits. He throws his arms around Rick's neck and drags him closer, biting at his lips and groaning in the back of his throat. "Ain't made'a glass, fuck," he grumbles.

 

Rick's smile is slow and predatory, and he knows it. Daryl shivers when he sees it and knocks his head back against the wall, offering his throat. Rick can already see where sweat is dampening the skin under his jaw, and he licks it up before biting at the hot, tanned skin. He's determined not to leave a lasting mark, but he's not above nibbling and sucking just enough to make Daryl arch against him with a gasp. Fingers tangle in his shorter curls and pull, making him growl - which makes Daryl gasp again from the feeling of it against his skin.

 

"Stop, stop," he pants. Rick pulls back and kisses him again, softer and with infinite care and gentleness. Daryl groans and opens his mouth, tilting his head and kissing back hard enough to bruise their lips. He's frustrated, but there's no need to be. Rick soothes him into slower, kinder kisses while running his hands up and down the trainer's sides. He feels Daryl shudder before relaxing, and he pulls back after one last nuzzle.

 

"At your pace, or not at all," he reminds the man. Daryl huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. Rick keeps cradling his nape and the base of his skull, petting through the soft strands until Daryl leans against him and closes his eyes.

 

"How th' fuck are ya even real?" he mutters in disbelief.

 

"Same way you are," Rick replies easily. "You have your gifts, and I have mine. It's what makes us unique."

 

"It's what makes ya a fuckin' saint," Daryl shakes his head. "I swear. Dunno how ya put up with my indecisive shit. Should'a dumped my ass on th' side'a th' road months ago."

 

"And miss out on your conversational skills?" Rick smiles and kisses Daryl, the two of them melting together sweetly and burning into each other like fires melding to form a larger, fiercer blaze. Whenever they do erupt, Rick knows it will be unstoppable. As eager as he is for it, they need to be stoked just a little more before they truly catch and consume everything of one another.

 

Right now, there are gentle kisses and whispered words. Rick whispering _Be with me_ and Daryl sighing back _I already am_. They come together slowly, still as new as the first signs of spring but already as deeply rooted as the oldest pines in Georgia.

 

Rick changes in the bathroom, and Daryl is sitting on the bed waiting for him when he comes back out. The trainer smiles lazily at him, his eyes warm and liquid as he stands and reaches out. Rick catches his hand and kisses his palm. He kisses each fingertip and nuzzles against the quick, heavy pulse beating in Daryl's wrist. He presses a kiss there and feels it jump against his lips; watches Daryl take a shaky breath and press the back of his other hand against his mouth.

 

"I don't know about you," Rick murmurs against the warm, thin skin he's reluctant to part from, "but I'm _starving_. Think you're in the mood for a good meal?"

 

"I think I could eat," Daryl agrees with a nod. Rick kisses his wrist one last time before letting go of his hand. They step closer simultaneously, Daryl's hands going back into his curls while Rick wraps his arms around the trainer's waist and rubs his lower back. Daryl relaxes against him, letting Rick take his weight; sighing against his shoulder and nuzzling the soft, worn fabric of his dark shirt.

 

"Burgers good with you?"

 

Daryl laughs. "Is there another alternative?"

 

"This is the South, darlin'," Rick chuckles. "There's _always_ an alternative."

 

"Food is food, ta me." Daryl shrugs and pulls back to stand on his own. He carefully untangles his fingers from the mess he's made of Rick's hair, smiling sheepishly and petting the dark curls away from Rick's forehead. "Ain't picky, Rick. I'll eat most anythin', trust me."

 

"I guess that'll make choosing date spots easier," Rick jokes. As soon as he says it, he wants to smack himself. Daryl just gives him a lopsided smile and nods, his eyes twinkling.

 

"Yeah, guess it will. Guess it means I gotta figure out what ya like too, in that case."

 

"And you're okay with that?" With his hopes bubbling like a spring, Rick looks at Daryl and reads more in the younger man's expression than he could ever gauge from just words. "Dates, movies, late night walks; that works for you?"

 

Daryl's smile drops slightly, but his sincerity never wanes. Insecurity creeps in, because even now, Daryl still doubts his worth and how long Rick's interest will last. What he doesn't seem to realize is just how invested in _them_ Rick is. He's not a serial dater, and he's not the kind of man to hop from person to person. He doesn't stray, no matter what, because he knows just how painful it is to have someone promise you a lifetime and turn their back on that vow.

 

"Daryl," he murmurs, tilting his head until those pale eyes are fixated on him with an unwavering devotion that Rick feels blessed every day to have from someone who trusts so fleetingly. "I'm not goin' anywhere, darlin'. You and me? I want all of it. I want every single thing, and I want it for the rest of our lives. I'll tell you as many times as you need to hear it, in as many ways as you need it said."

 

"Just need a forever," Daryl whispers. His eyes are bright and shining, his hope and his unshakable loyalty two of his most beautiful traits in Rick's opinion.

 

"You've got it," he promises. "A forever, and an always, until time itself ends."

 

And just like that, Daryl's smile becomes even more radiant than the sun. They leave the room together and walk the streets of Louisville, completely removed from the world around them. They're lost in each other, telling stories and laughing as they walk side by side. They find a fast food place and get their burgers to go; search out a nice, quiet spot and sit on the grass to eat as they share stories and a lemonade.

 

Daryl tells Rick about growing up with Merle, and all the shit his brother would do that would piss of their dad and make their mom laugh. He talks about how Merle always watched out for him, even though Daryl was so much younger. How Merle was practically Daryl's father, because he was the one to raise Daryl after their mother died.

 

The trainer doesn't say how she died, but Rick can see the traumatic pain that still brews beneath the surface. To distract Daryl, he tells him about the early days on the force, before he and Shane were transferred to Atlanta  - Old Man Rogers and his wild dog that was really the sweetest mutt this side of the Mason-Dixon. He laughs about Shane and the shit he used to pull, and feels how much less talking about him hurts the more time goes on.

 

Beneath the stars, hidden from prying eyes as the night goes, they share their lives between quick kisses, their shoulders pressed together tightly and their knees bumping every time they shift a little. They breathe together, laugh together, and in a way, Rick thinks they heal together.

 

"She was my world," Daryl whispers at one point, his eyes glassy from unshed tears. He's looking at the sky, focused on the stars, but he's not lost in his memories. He's present and hunting for that specific twinkling star that will wink just a little bit brighter, and Rick looks with him, wondering if his own loved ones are looking down on him, waiting to say hello.

 

"She still is." Looking at Daryl, he hums quietly, the notes twining around them until it seems like the air itself is shimmering from the melody. "She's in every scent you breathe; every gust of wind and every note of birdsong. She's in Streak, and Lays, and Buck. She's always with you, Daryl, just in different ways."

 

"Yeah," the trainer agrees. He's looking at Rick now, seemingly memorizing every inch of his face even though he'd probably memorized it long ago. The intensity is like being too close to a fire, but it's a warmth that's soothing at the same time. Rick moves even closer, reaching over to steal one of Daryl's cold fries and laughing when his hand is swatted at. He retaliates by kissing Daryl and nipping at his lips; tasting the flavors of the burger and the salt from the fries, all of it combining with Daryl's natural taste to leave him almost dizzy with happiness and satisfaction.

 

All in all, it's the best night Rick has had in a long time, and he's looking forward to every night that follows with Daryl at his side as more than just a trainer and a friend. He's Rick's _partner_ , his new beginnings, and the doors to what was close behind them with a quiet finality. It leaves everything stretching out before them glowing with promise, like the sun coming up after endless years of night.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeeeeeeeyyyyyyy. How're we all doin'? Everyone okay?
> 
> This would have been up earlier, but I was in Virginia over the weekend and I just got home about an hour ago. Soooo, here it is!
> 
> As always, a huge shoutout to katytheinspiredworkaholic (who told me I don't have to do this for every chapter, but I think y'all should know just how amazing she is anyway) for continuously making sense of my shenanigans.
> 
> Also, fandomlifetookmyhandandsaidRUN deserves a HUGE shoutout for making another gorgeous collage of our boys and the horses! THANK YOU SO MUCH MINE PUMPKIN SPICE WHOOPIE PIE. ;U;
> 
> Without further ado - CHAPTER 10

[ ](http://s1320.photobucket.com/user/sczepiel79/media/A4093433-681C-4E12-A62F-5B9C4EB21734_zpsvwj57hxp.jpg.html)

 

 

 

Rick's house is a three-story dwelling large enough for a group of people to live in and cohabitate easily. Sasha likes to joke that it's more of a Bed and Breakfast, only _he_ pays _them_ to sleep there. The overall theme is rustic and country, and every inch of it is his own design. He had the original house completely gutted, back when he bought the property. It had been in disrepair, abandoned and slowly crumbling to ruin, but Rick had seen so much potential throughout the entire structure that he'd been determined to bring it back to what he'd known even then that it could be.

 

There's a lot of space in the house - open floorplans and well-sized bedrooms that need to be cleaned even if they're not being used. There are five bedrooms upstairs, including Rick's, and six more on either side of the main floor. He cleans each one himself, with the help of his boarders. They usually make a day of it at least twice a month, because they all pick up after themselves and keep the house clean, but sometimes they like to do just that little extra more. Living out in the country, at the mercy of the dust and dirt they constantly track inside that settles in a layer over _everything_ , it's necessary. It can be tedious sometimes, but with the windows open and music playing, it's also therapeutic.

 

A few weeks after the Breeder's Juvenile Cup, Rick gives everyone a day off. He feeds the horses himself, turns them out, and mucks their stalls. He sees a flash of Daryl here and there - dark hair, dirty jeans, and a torn shirt with the sleeves removed even though it's getting too cool to go without a jacket. Pale eyes that smile at him even from so far away, that warm Rick's heart and makes him smile back while letting Bager out into his pasture with Business. Looking down at his hands, he sees the dirt caked on his fingers and palms from petting each of his charges before turning them out. He brings them to his face and inhales deeply to let the scent fill his senses, because there is nothing better in this world than the scent of horses - unless it's bitter smoke and musky sweat mixed with horse-smell.

 

Rick starts cleaning the house by himself, working around the bedrooms that are already occupied to give his employees their privacy, even though none of them are home. He opens the windows in the front rooms and the kitchen, letting the country-scented air and the snorts of grazing horses filter in while he works. There's a country station playing a mixture of new and classic artists, which Rick hums along to while he washes dishes and unloads what's still in the dishwasher. He doesn't realize he has an audience until he hears the deliberate scuff of a heel and looks up with a smile already in place.

 

"Domestic, ain't ya?" Daryl chuckles softly from the doorway. He's barefoot and his jeans are rolled up to rest at his calves, which looks a bit silly but tells Rick that the trainer is trying his best not to track unnecessary mud across the floors Rick has already mopped. The faint scent of lemon and pine tickles his nose when he breathes in, mixing enticingly with Daryl's sweaty, dusty musk. It makes Rick's brain go fuzzy and his veins burn, and his smile is a little more hungry than he means for it to be. Daryl's answering smirk is hot and hungry as well, but the desire is banked and muted; present in a way they both acknowledge but lazy enough that there's no pressing urge to do anything about it.

 

"As much as I'd rather be out there with them," Rick says with a nod toward the pasture stretching out beyond his backyard, "there's mundane chores to be done in here." He tilts his head toward Daryl again, getting curious when he sees bags in the man's hands he hadn't noticed before. "What've you got there, darlin'?"

 

There's nothing to really describe how much Rick finds joy in Daryl's reactions to any affectionate endearment. His cheeks turn slightly pink and he ducks his head shyly, looking down and off to the side. His Stetson is nowhere in sight, and when Rick thinks about it he realizes that he hasn't seen the hat Daryl uses as a shield much lately anyway. Even when he has worn it around the ranch, he hasn't hidden behind it the way he once did. That, more than anything, shows how comfortable he's become around Rick and the rest of the group  - how much of a family they've made with one another.

 

"Need ta make s'more treats," Daryl mutters. Rick perks up at that, trying not to seem as hopeful as he truly is. He's asked Daryl several times through the months to show him how he makes his treats, but the man always skirted around the topic without ever really outright telling him no. He figured it was because Daryl's recipe was secret and sacred to him for reasons beyond what Rick understood. Now, as he watches the trainer set the bags on the counter to start unloading them, Rick shivers from a combination of the cool fall air coming in through the open window and the warmth of having Daryl so close without them actually touching.

 

Fall at the ranch is a gorgeous, picturesque thing. The trees start readying themselves for winter slowly, the heavy leaves painting themselves gradually in a myriad of reds, golds and browns. The pastures are covered in leaves already fallen from their branches, and Rick loves the crisp crunch of the hooves that walk over them as the horses nose through the scattered spread of dead and dying colors to get to the still-green grass beneath.

 

November in Georgia is one of Rick's favorite times. Halloween is over, the pumpkins getting soft from rot as their carved faces droop and cave in. Carol has already claimed them, her eyes twinkling as she mentioned offhandedly what she could do with the remains. Rick had laughed and given them over readily, glad to have them off of his porch even though he's never had a problem with Halloween. He'd even carved his pumpkin with Daryl, which is probably why it had looked as good as it had, until time had started to reclaim it.

 

"Do you want me to leave you alone so you can work in peace?" Drying the last dish, Rick puts the plate where it belongs and throws the damp towel over his shoulder. "I was gonna work on the game room and dinin' room next, anyway."

 

"Figured..." Daryl looks at the bag of oatmeal he's started rolling back and forth between his palms before meeting Rick's gaze uncertainly. "You been askin', an' I thought..." Scowling at his own hesitation, the trainer grunts and jerks his head like an angry, frustrated horse. "Thought ya'd wanna help," he finally grits out.

 

"I do," Rick agrees without hesitation. Wiping his hands on his jeans, he closes the few feet of space between them until Daryl's back meets the high counter and his nails dig into the underside of the lip. Rick hears his breath catch, quiet and quick, and kisses him to feel it stutter against his lips before Daryl finds his confidence again and kisses back.

 

Daryl tastes like peppermint, like he's been eating a candy cane or maybe sucking on a peppermint candy. Rick groans and presses closer, licking the taste out of his mouth until Daryl's arms are wrapped around him tightly and the trainer is making soft, breathy noises. He seems so easily overwhelmed by anything intimate, and Rick has made a point of learning his tells so he knows when it's becoming too much for the younger man.

 

When he feels Daryl's arms tighten around him, he eases back and licks at his cool, tingling lips with a smile. "You know I'd love to," he murmurs. Daryl relaxes back against the counter more comfortably, as if all his tension stemmed from him honestly believing that Rick would say no. "What do I need to do first?"

 

"Measure out th' oatmeal?" Daryl says it more like a question - like he expects the simple task to be too mundane for Rick despite the fact that he's already offered. Multiple times. Rather than saying that, Rick smiles and presses a soft kiss to Daryl's still-warm cheek before he helps to get the last of the ingredients out of the bags. There's oats and bran; flour and apples and a bag of peppermints that's already been opened. Rick sees brown sugar and regular sugar, and jars of molasses. There's even a bag of baby carrots, and he sets everything up in groups without thinking. When he looks at Daryl again, the man is smiling fondly and shaking his head.

 

"Regular ol' housewife, ain'tcha," he laughs with quiet amusement. His eyes are sparkling, his words too playful to be biting, and Rick laughs as well as his chest fills with warmth aimed entirely toward the gorgeous man laughing in his kitchen.

 

"Figured it might make it easier for us," he says with a nod toward the ingredients. "How much do you need of each?"

 

"Don' really measure properly," Daryl admits with a shrug. "Ain't never really had th' lux'ry, b'fore. Jus' pour a bag an' a half're so int'a each bowl."

 

Rick looks at the bags of dry, rolled oats waiting on the counter and feels his eyebrows raise slightly. "Three bowls?"

 

"Mhm. Split whatever's left 'tween 'em. I'll start peelin' an' cuttin' th' apples."

 

Following Daryl's instructions, Rick tries to approximate to the best of his ability. When he hears Daryl trying to muffle a snort, he smiles and makes himself stop overthinking what he's doing. In the end, he figures his eyeball measurements are good enough and starts helping Daryl peel the apples. Daryl's using a paring knife, carving carefully toward himself and using his thumb as a guide. It's dangerous, but the finished product is a peel with minimum flesh still attached, curling in a beautiful spiral. Rick's own peeling attempts are much less graceful, but he doesn't mangle the first apple too badly, so he figures he's done pretty well.

 

"Thanks for letting me help." He gives Daryl's ribs a gentle nudge with his elbow, smiling when those pale eyes fix on him with the accuracy of a compass pointing North.

 

"Yeah," Daryl murmurs. There's something in his tone, a faint misty sheen to his eyes, but his small smile is sincere. He never stops peeling the apple, even when he's not looking at it. Rick is about to ask - he's _burning_ with the need to know - but the trainer keeps talking before he can gather the right words. The sweet, crisp smell of the apples mixes with the fresh air coming inside, wrapping around them and cocooning Rick in the subtle, cool layers of autumn. It's a balm for him, and also a reminder that now that summer is over, winter is creeping in. There are still races to run, still points for Streak to collect before spring rolls around again and the Derby looms like a close, obtainable goal.

 

"My mom an' I used ta make 'em."

 

Rick blinks as the words wash over him like water, lapping at his skin gently and warming his chest with a love so achingly present that he feels his throat get tight in response to how thick Daryl's voice is. All at once, he can understand why the younger man kept this to himself for so long - why he guarded the recipes and how he made them and kept it all so close to his chest. Rick can imagine the trainer as a wide-eyed boy, streaked with mud everywhere but his hands and barefoot as he stood on a chair beside his mother to help peel apples. They must have laughed and made a mess while they prepared the ingredients; flour and oats and sticky, thick molasses covering everything - including the wild little boy with eyes like summer skies.

 

"Thank you for sharing this with me," he whispers. Daryl looks at him again, his eyes clear and sharp, but not cruel. No, there is no cruelty in Daryl Dixon. If there was, the animals would never have taken to him. Buck would have sooner bitten him than show his belly, and Streak would have seen him off the way she did every other cruel man who tried to bend her to their will.

 

If there is anger in Daryl, it's only because of the life he was forced to live, before the man who treated him so badly met his grisly end. Even now, that anger stems from his insecurities, and his belief that he never deserved an ounce of the kindness he found - first in Dale, and then in Rick. His months at the ranch have settled him; it's been a pleasure watching him grow with Streak, the two of them leaning on each other and learning from one another in ways Rick's not sure Daryl is entirely aware of.

 

"Mash 'em up?" Daryl asks, looking at him and already reaching for the hand-held potato masher in a nearby crock. Rick nods and keeps peeling, watching as Daryl quickly and efficiently cores each apple before quartering them. There's juice running down Rick's wrist, and he licks it away without thinking, catching the flash of Daryl's eyes as he does so and pretending not to notice.

 

While Rick finishes the apples, Daryl starts grating the carrots for another batch of treats. He moves around the kitchen like he's completely at home amongst the dark counters and rustic, stained wood; his bare feet silent against the floorboards and his body swaying along with the song spilling from the radio Rick left on the island. Every once and awhile, he can hear the trainer humming along softly, although he's not sure Daryl realizes what he's doing. It's low and deep, vibrating through Rick and shivering through his veins like the croon of another harmony - settling in his chest and blooming like magic that tingles through every inch of him. His scalp prickles, the feeling reminding him of the wind rushing through his curls. When he breathes in, he smells the apples and something that reminds him of pine bark and sage.

 

"Hey," Daryl calls to him, his voice too quiet to shock Rick out of whatever cloud his mind has fallen into. He blinks and looks at the younger man, who has stopped grating to watch him with eyes Rick would almost swear are glowing faintly. "Don' go nowhere," he rumbles, and Rick nods distractedly.

 

"I'm here," he promises. Daryl watches him for another moment before nodding, and they return to their separate tasks. As soon as the apples are cut up and ready, Rick starts to mash them into something that reminds him of the consistency of applesauce. This version is chunkier, and probably a lot more natural than the neat little packages and bottles he'd find at the closest grocery store.

 

"Mix half in th' first bowl," Daryl instructs without looking up from his own task. "Lemme know when yer done."

 

Rick pours the mashed-up mess into the first bowl as he's been instructed, trying to guess how much is half. Daryl is already there before he puts the rest aside, handing him a bottle of ground cinnamon. "Not too much," he cautions. "Don' need ta overpower everythin' else. Li'l bit goes a long way."

 

"Use my best judgement?" Rick guesses with a smile. Daryl smiles back and nods. He goes back to his mound of grated carrot, and Rick watches him use his hands to pick it up and dump it into the bowl closest to him. He adds bran and molasses, stirs it all together, and steals a handful of oats from the third bowl with sticky, wet fingers.

 

Rick mixes his own bowl once he's added the cinnamon. It's a lumpy mess, but he can smell the different flavors mingling in a way that reminds him of oatmeal. Daryl uses a hip to bump him out of the way, adding a bit of molasses and stirring it again before using a spoon to taste it.

 

"More cinn'mon," he mutters to himself. Rick watches him add the spice until he's satisfied, stirring and tasting every time until he's nodding and smiling around the spoon.

 

"Need me to turn on the oven?" he offers. Daryl nods distractedly, popping the spoon out of his mouth and dipping it back into the bowl. Rick's getting ready to tease him about double dipping, but then that spoon is in his mouth and the flavor of the treat melts across his tastebuds.

 

Daryl smirks, looking satisfied and smug while Rick forgets his manners and sucks the spoon clean. "Turn it ta four hundred an' let it heat up," he chuckles. Rick nods and sucks harder, turning away to get the oven set up while Daryl finishes the last bowl. He smashes up the peppermint candies and throws them in, mixing some bran and molasses in with them to make the mixture clump together in a sticky mess.

 

Together, they grease up cooking trays and drop tablespoon-sized balls of the treat dough out in uneven rows. Rick can't remember the last time they let themselves just relax like this; he's not sure Daryl knows what it means to truly relax. If there's one person at the ranch that works harder than anyone else, to the point that even on his days off Rick finds him training one of the horses, it's definitely Daryl. He's got nothing more to prove - he's an invaluable addition to the group, and no one will dispute that. He keeps going though, pushing himself more and more until Rick wonders when he's going to run himself into the ground, or if he's too stubborn for even that.

 

A new song starts to play, the low, warbling notes of a guitar making Rick smile. If ever there was a more fitting song, it's this one. As Josh Turner's deep, rumbling voice spills out of the speakers, low and melodic and with enough drawl to hint at his roots, Rick moves closer to Daryl. The man seems oblivious, too busy pushing whole peppermints onto the tops of the peppermint treats. He doesn't realize anything is happening until Rick takes the last candy from him and sets it on the counter beside the tray.

 

"'Chu doin', Rick?" Daryl asks with a frown. His confusion quickly turns to surprise when Rick pulls him close and wraps an arm around his slim waist; the other arm going around around his broad shoulders to keep him from leaning too far back. The trainer's hands settle uncertainly against Rick's sides, his pale eyes flicking nervously from side to side before he looks at Rick and tilts his head. "Rick?"

 

"I love this song," Rick says by way of explanation. As the chorus starts up, he hums along and starts turning in slow circles, guiding Daryl with him. The trainer stumbles, wide-eyed from shock and nerves, but Rick is patient. Daryl knows how to read his body language just as well as he can read a horse's, and Rick can already feel the younger man relaxing as they glide in slow circles around his kitchen.

 

"There a reason for this?" Daryl whispers. He's smiling, a crooked little hitch of his lips, and he's looking at Rick instead of down at his feet. There's too much grace in Daryl for him not to be a good dancer, and as the song continues, the melody rolling over them like gentle waves, Rick watches him find his confidence.

 

"Can't I dance with my man?" Rick teases. Daryl's forehead rests against his shoulder, the smooth skin so warm even through his shirt.

 

"That what I am?" he murmurs, almost too quietly to hear. The hope in his whisper-soft voice damn near kills Rick, and he presses a kiss against the dark, silky strands of hair tickling his cheek.

 

"Will you let me be?" They stop moving around the kitchen and sway near the counter, their bodies rocking easily together as they continue to dance. Daryl turns his head so that his nose is pressed against Rick's throat. He feels the barest brush of a kiss and closes his eyes with a smile.

 

"Shit, think ya always were," Daryl admits. "Jus' had ta quit bein' so damn bullheaded an' stubborn an' see it."

 

"You? Stubborn? _Never_ ," Rick chuckles. He jerks when Daryl pinches his side harshly, laughing a little louder as the song comes to a close and the last notes fade slowly, vibrating like they're not willing to lose the moment before the radio finally rolls into the next song.

 

"Asshole," Daryl huffs, but he's smiling when he steps back and turns to pick up the first tray of cookies. "Get th' door, Mr. Romance. Ain't gonna take long ta cook, an' then we can taste 'em."

 

"Taste 'em?" Rick opens the door and digs some oven mitts out of one of the drawers for when they're finished. As amazing as he often finds Daryl to be, he's not sure the trainer is quite incredible enough to pull burning hot trays out of an oven with his bare hands.

 

"Don't give 'em nothin' I wouldn't eat m'self," Daryl reminds him distractedly. The trays of apple and carrot cookies go in first, the door shut firmly behind them. Daryl immediately turns on the oven light to keep an eye on them. When he looks at Rick, he snorts. "You realize yer covered in shit?"

 

Rick looks at himself and laughs. He's covered in bran and brown sugar, and there's even oats stuck to the front of his shirt. He brushes as much off as he can, much to Daryl's apparent dismay. "I can mop again, it's not a big deal," he promises. He eyes the sticky molasses stains on the counter and feels the way his fingers are trying to fuse every time he presses them together. "Looks like we got more on us than in the treats."

 

"S'part'a th' fun," Daryl grins. His eyes twinkle with mischief, which is Rick's only warning before a trail of dough is smeared across his bearded cheek.

 

"Oh, you did not," he growls without heat. The dough is cool and sticky, clumping in his beard and promising to be a difficult mess if he doesn't get it out as soon as possible. Daryl is chuckling as he clears a space in the fridge to put the peppermint cookies in to chill - apparently they aren't meant to be baked like the others.

 

"Wha'chu gon' do 'bout it?" Daryl challenges with a smirk. It's the liveliest Rick has seen him yet, and it looks damn good on him. Being happy brings Daryl to life in a way that steals Rick's breath away. All of the sudden it hits him with the force of a freight train - he loves Daryl more than he's loved anyone else in his life, in shades of color he'd never known existed. The world he knew was shades of grey until the horses brought color with them, and then Daryl showed up and his life exploded in a cloud of the most intense, dazzling kaleidoscope he's ever seen.

 

Daryl's body is hard and warm, but he softens for Rick when he's pressed back against the counter. Their kiss is a slow, burning thing, licking through Rick's body like tongues of flame that heat his blood but never come close to searing him. The lips against his part eagerly, no hesitation in the way Daryl arches against him and kisses back with a hunger that consumes them both.

 

The trainer is laughing when they separate. Rick watches him lick his wet, swollen lips and shudders from the desire and the love still churning through him. It's like getting hit by a tidal wave, drowning in feelings that always felt so pale to him before.

 

"If tha's yer reaction ta some dough in yer beard, yer kinda shit at gettin' back at me," Daryl huffs.

 

"Oh, it'll come, trust me." Rick's grin is slow and predatory. He loves seeing how Daryl shivers at his low, promising rumble. It makes him think of all the things he can do to evoke stronger reactions - what he can do to make that spine bow enticingly and that broad chest heave. He wants to hear exactly what kinds of noises he can pull from Daryl's throat, and he wants to watch them spill past lips that are swollen from hours of kisses.

 

"That so?" Daryl tips his head forward, getting shy in the face of Rick's raw, unhindered desire. Rick tips his face back up and kisses one flushed cheek, reining himself in and smiling when he feels the trainer press into the contact.

 

"It's a promise," Rick whispers. "I'll never do anything to hurt you, sweetheart. You know that."

 

"Yeah," Daryl agrees, his voice soft and rich like sunlight and honey. "Yeah, I know."

 

"Good." The timer goes off and Rick smiles, pecking a kiss against Daryl's cheek again before putting space between them. Daryl follows, pressing his face against Rick's throat and kissing the side of his Adam's apple before turning to grab the oven mitts.

 

"Shouldn't take long ta cool," he murmurs as he moves the hot treats from the baking tray to a cooling rack Rick sets up for him quickly. "Then we c'n taste 'em."

 

"And if we don't like 'em?" Rick leans back against the sink, the stainless steel cold against his heated palms. It helps to refocus his wandering thoughts, and he smiles at how domestic Daryl looks; wearing dark brown oven mitts and using a spatula to carefully transfer the horse treats from one surface to another. There's an adorable furrow in his brow as he concentrates on not dropping any. It's a wise move, because Rick can hear the tick-tack of Buck's claws across the floors as the heeler comes looking for them - probably drawn by the smells wafting out the kitchen window and spreading across the driveway.

 

"Make 'em again," Daryl says simply. He drops the mitts beside the cooling racks and looks at Rick with a playfully offended scowl. "Ya sayin' I can't cook, Grimes?"

 

"Dixon, I'm pretty sure there ain't a damn thing in this world you can't do, once you set your mind to it," Rick smiles.

 

"Shut th' fuck up," Daryl mutters, although he's smiling as he tests the closest treat with his fingers. Rick is a little less impatient, grabbing one of the carrot ones and wincing at how hot it still is against his sensitive fingertips. He juggles it between his palms, ignoring Daryl's snort, and pops it in his mouth as soon as he thinks it's cool enough not to scorch his tongue.

 

"Well?" the trainer asks. Rick crunches through the still-warm treat in answer, tasting the mingling flavors and humming as the taste of the carrot comes through like a hidden surprise. He holds it in his mouth for a moment, reminding himself that he's an adult and sticking his tongue out at Daryl is far too childish for the moment they've just shared.

 

"It's perfect," he sighs happily once he's swallowed. Daryl rolls his eyes, but there's a small, pleased smile hinted at in the way his lips twitch. It glows in his eyes, sinking into Rick and leaving him feeling like he's been wrapped in the heat of a warm summer day.

 

"I guess they'll do," the trainer allows before popping an apple treat into his mouth. Rick knows him well enough to read what's hidden behind the humble words, and he smiles as he brushes some of the trainer's bangs back from his face.

 

"Yeah," he agrees. "I think they're perfect, too."

 

He doesn't even say anything when he sees Daryl sneak one to Buck. He's too busy basking in the warmth and happiness of a perfect day.

 

\--

 

The world reasserts itself slowly, sound trickling in like it's coming through a filter. Rick struggles to come out of the darkness of his unconsciousness while trying to figure out where he is, and why the world went dark in the first place. Turning his head makes him hiss sharply as pain sears from the back of his skull all the way down his spine. It clears away the last of the fog, everything sharpening into something he can make sense of.

 

At first, all he can process is the pain. It feels worse than when he was shot, because by the time he'd woken up from that, he was healed and left with an ache that came and went through the years. This is all-consuming in a way he can't escape from, and he barks out a strangled noise of pain as he moves his legs and feels the way agony spreads through the left limb before it becomes suddenly immobile.

 

"Shh, shhh, yer okay, I gotcha. Breathe, don' panic."

 

"Daryl?" Rick croaks. Even his throat hurts; his lips coated in grainy dirt and sand. He feels it grinding into the back of his head when he tries to shift - feels the hard, cold rock beneath it, and twitches when something tickles his cheeks and forehead.

 

"Jesus Christ, ya did a number on y'rself. Fuckin' idiot, goin' out alone. Fuckin' stupid f'r _lettin_ ' ya go out by y'rself. Knew it felt wrong." Daryl grabs him by the hip and holds him down when he tries to move again. "G'ddamnit, Rick, _stay_ _still_."

 

Cracking open his eyes, Rick blinks blearily up at the dark, whisker-covered muzzle hovering over his nose. Badger blows a grass-scented breath across his face, and he has to grit his teeth through another groan when the gelding moves his head and sunlight stabs painfully at his over sensitive eyes.

 

"Wha' happened?" he slurs, but he's already starting to piece it together, the memories coming back in blurry flashes that he's struggling to make sense of.

 

He remembers tasting the treats with Daryl and kissing him again. Mentioning going for a ride. Saddling up Lays while Daryl hovered with an unusual amount of uncertainty. He remembers the trainer offering to go along multiple times, and laughing it off gently. Kissing the man one more time to distract him. Promising to be back long before the sun touched the Western horizon.

 

Rick remembers taking a new trail with Lays, easing the mare along when she hesitated at going in a different direction than she was used to. The scenery had been gorgeous, with a short cliff off to one side and the forest all around them. He'd heard running water but hadn't been able to see it. Lays had even been starting to get eager about exploring, her head up and her ears forward as she wound her way along the narrow deer path.

 

And then she'd spooked. Rick remembers her rearing with a shrill scream. He'd tried to hold on, but the mare had bucked violently, and he'd been thrown off her back and over her shoulder. He'd hit the ground and rolled to avoid her hooves, and he'd gone over the cliff. His last memory had been Lays' whinny echoing in his ears and the sound of hooves against rocks as the mare had leapt over the edge to follow him. And then it had been agony, and then blackness.

 

"Ya fuckin' fell," Daryl hisses shakily. "Don' fuckin' know how, or why, but ya fell, an' Lays fell, an' Jesus fuckin' shit, Rick, I thought y'all were fuckin' _dead_."

 

"Lays," Rick rasps frantically. He struggles to sit up - fights the pain just _breathing_ sends radiating through him in ways he's long since tried to become familiar with. Daryl plants a hand firmly in the center of his chest and keeps him down.

 

"You fuckin' _stay_ ," he orders with a growl that borders on hysterical. His pale eyes are wide and wild, a smear of dirt across one cheek and a thin, blood-crusted cut just below it. "Ya prob'lly got a goddamn concussion on top'a th' broken leg, Rick. Ya ain't fuckin' movin' 'til I _fix_ _ya_."

 

" _Lays_ ," Rick says again with more urgency, trying to look around the best he can without moving his head. "Daryl, _where_ _is_ _Lays_?"

 

"Restin'," Daryl soothes softly. He's kneeling by Rick's knees, his hands covered in something thick and green that reminds Rick of the Poultice he used on Streak's mouth when the bit cut her. From what he can see, it looks like Daryl has covered his broken leg in it, and he'd been in the process of wrapping it when Rick had started to regain consciousness. "She's restin', Rick. Broke her own leg along with ya, but it ain't bad. Got her tied ta a tree nearby, waitin' ta go home."

 

"How'd you find us?" Rick feels groggy, his mind covered in a thickening cloud that makes him want to sleep. Every time his eyes start to close, Daryl taps his hip or pats at his face, the bitter scent of the herbs making his nose tingle until he's fighting the urge to sneeze. "How'd you know?"

 

"Badger." Daryl goes back to wrapping, keeping the pressure to his satisfaction as he rolls the thick ace bandages around Rick's leg. He's holding it in place with two sturdy sticks that feel like a whole new kind of agony when they press on either side of the broken limb. "Was fixin' ta bring e'ryone in when he started pitchin' a fit in th' pasture. Rearin', buckin', screamin' bloody murder - he wouldn' stop. Dunno what tipped him off, or if he heard somethin' I didn', but I wasn' gonna ignore him. He barely waited for me ta get th' gate an' climb on 'fore he took off. Didn' know th' old man could run that fast."

 

Rick grunts and grinds his teeth, trying not to focus on the pain. He tries to focus on Daryl instead, listening to the way his voice dips and shakes like fragile branches being battered by a storm - fear and worry dripping from each syllable like heavy raindrops that splatter against the ground in a way that reminds Rick of tears. He wants to apologize, because Daryl had pestered him not to go alone, and he hadn't listened. He wants to thank the man, and Badger, but the world is getting fuzzy again and every time he tries to gather his words they flit away from him like hummingbirds, vanishing back into the fog.

 

He's so tired.

 

Daryl slaps at his face - hard enough to jerk him back to awareness but still gently enough not to cause any new hurts. "Stay awake, Rick," the trainer urges him. "C'mon, talk ta me. Wha's yer name?"

 

"M'name's Rick," he mutters, the words thick and sticking to his gums like stubborn cotton.

 

"Las' name?"

 

"'Rimes."

 

"Fuck, close 'nough. Where were ya born?"

 

"King Coun'y." It's getting harder to form coherent responses, but Daryl refuses to let him rest like he's so desperate to.

 

"State?"

 

"Georgia. M'tired."

 

"I know ya are, Rick, but ya gotta stay with me, okay?" Daryl is starting to sound frantic again; struggling to keep calm but losing control of his voice even as his hands stay steady and unshakable. It feels like he finishes tying off the bandage, the pressure still agonizing but in a more bearable way, and he shifts up until he's hovering over Rick and can stare down at his face. His hands cup Rick's cheeks, cool from the Poultice but still comforting. "C'mon, stay with me. Tell me somethin', Rick. Anythin', it don' fuckin' matter. Jus' talk ta me."

 

"You got eyes like th' summer sky, ya know tha'?" Rick feels his lips twitch into a smile that probably ends up being more of a grimace. "Most goddamn gorgeous person 've ever seen, Daryl. Love ya so much I can' breathe sometimes."

 

Daryl's pale eyes widen, his fingers pressing into Rick's cheeks until he grunts and tries to turn his head away to escape the pressure. The trainer keeps him from moving his neck, and Rick wishes his eyes would focus enough for him to see what expression has just overtaken Daryl's face. Whatever it is, it's gone before the other man bends down and kisses him so softly it feels like a feather tickling over his lips.

 

"Say it again when ya ain't delusional an' I migh' believe ya," Daryl whispers against his mouth. Rick closes his eyes and feels the darkness trying to pull him back down again. It's getting harder for him to fight his way back to something approaching coherency, but he feels Daryl patting his cheeks and pressing at his shoulders; trying to keep him awake even though Rick is desperate to escape the pain, if only for a little while.

 

Fingers tap at his cheeks and nose, forcing him back to the surface of whatever pool of comforting darkness he's submerged himself in this time. When he forces his eyes open, he sees kind blue eyes and a white, wild beard - wrinkles from age and smiling so much, as well as the lasting effects of pain long since let go.

 

"Do you know who I am, Rick?" The man shines a light in his eyes and he groans, trying to turn away from it. He physically can't this time, because there's something on either side of his head keeping him from doing it. "Don't move too much, son. You're not paralyzed, but I don't know what other injuries you may have aside from the concussion and the broken leg."

 

"C'n ya find out?" Daryl's voice filters in from a direction Rick can't really determine. He wants to look for the trainer - wants to draw strength from those pale blue eyes. He's distracted when Hershel Greene turns to look back over his shoulder.

 

"I'm not a medical doctor, Daryl. I'm not qualified to assess him like that. We need a real medical professional. As it is, we can't risk moving him, not without the right equipment. We could hurt him further."

 

Rick is having a hard time following the conversation. He's still struggling between knowing he needs to stay awake and wanting so badly to just close his eyes and rest. Hershel and Daryl are so busy talking that they wouldn't even notice, so Rick tries to close his eyes - only to feel Badger's whiskers tickle across his face as the gelding checks on him.

 

"H'llo, boy," he slurs. His low, rough voice makes the two men stop mid-conversation. He would be concerned, but he can't find it in himself to ask. Daryl appears between one long blink and the next, his hands clean and warm again as he gently pushes Rick's curls back from his forehead.

 

"Hershel’s callin' th' cops," he murmurs. There's something about the way the trainer says it, but Rick can't puzzle through his tone of voice right now. "We're gonna getcha fixed up, don' ya worry."

 

"Lays," Rick mutters.

 

"I got her, Rick. I'll take care'a our girl."

 

"Know ya will." Smiling, Rick kisses Daryl's fingers when they touch his mouth. The younger man seems intent on feeling every inch of his face, and it's nice. Rick can't quite tell how much time has passed, and he's still fighting not to slip into the inviting darkness of unconsciousness, but he knows that Daryl touching him like this, so gently and with purpose, is one of the best things he's ever felt.

 

"Should do this more of'en, y'know," he tries to chuckle. Daryl huffs at him, but he doesn't stop.

 

"Don' get hurt again and I might," the younger man retorts. His voice gentles when he asks, "How ya feelin'?"

 

"Like I got hit by a train. Y'r hands feel nice." Rick sighs and licks his lips. His tongue brushes the side of Daryl's palm, and the fingers rubbing gently at his temples twitch. The man doesn't pull away though, and the action is soothing. It helps him forget for a moment that his leg is being kept straight with sticks and a wrap - or at least not focus on the pain as much.

 

"Most incredible thing ta ev'r walk through my door," he whispers. Daryl shakes his head, and Rick laughs. It's low and slurred, and it makes his pounding head ache even more sharply, but it's enough to get a smile out of the man leaning over him.

 

"Yer th' most stubborn man I ever fuckin' met," Daryl huffs with a chuckle. His warm fingers keep massaging Rick's temples gently. He feels the smear of something that cools and tingles - it smells of peppermint and something else, something that he can't place. Whatever the combination is, it makes him relax, and he stops fighting to move. Partly it's because he's in too much pain to keep trying. The rest of it has everything to do with the soothing touches against his skin. It won't take the pain away, but it's enough for now.

 

"Paramedics are on their way," Hershel says as he rejoins them. Rick didn't even hear him talking on the phone; he was so involved in watching Daryl. "Rick, do you want me to cast Lays' leg when we get you both back to the ranch?"

 

"'Course," Rick mumbles. He blinks slowly at Daryl, watching what emotions he can catch tumble wildly through those pale eyes. It reminds him of water beating against rocks, foam and mist spraying in every direction from the force of the rapids. "Know she's in good hands with all y'all."

 

"Damn right," Daryl agrees. He's back to stroking Rick's hair away from his face, smearing whatever he's put on his hands through the tangled curls. It makes Rick's scalp tingle in a pleasing way. He sighs quietly and looks from the blurry sky to Daryl's hazy features.

 

"So perfect," he murmurs. "S'damn perfect, Daryl. Never gonna get tired'a tellin' ya."

 

"Might get tired'a hearin' it in that voice," Daryl quips back. He curves his spine, leaning over Rick and pressing their foreheads together with infinite care. "Tell me again when yer brain ain't tryin' ta leak out'a yer ears, Romeo."

 

"'S that make you my Juliette?" Rick whispers with a smile. It's worth it for Daryl's quiet snort, the air from it ghosting across his lips and mouth.

 

"Don' push yer luck, cowboy."

 

They stay as they are, Daryl crooning low in the back of his throat in a way Rick has become familiar with. He loses himself in the rhythm; focusing on the way it vibrates through him and spreads across his muscles until he's wrapped up in the melody. Daryl never adds words, not that Rick can tell. It's a chant, but not one that requires any language but music. It's both the same and completely different from the first song Daryl ever shared with him. This one makes Rick think of growing things and new life - wind through plains grasses and the bubble of water over river rocks. He can hear the coo of doves and the hiss of rain, and through it all, the familiar and well-loved rumble of hoofbeats.

 

Rick feels alert when he finally hears the sirens - faint at first but getting louder the closer they come. He's lucky enough that he's close to the road, so the paramedics won't have far to go to get to them. Hershel has already gone out to meet them, although when he left, Rick isn't sure. He's been too focused on Daryl and the warbling hum as he's rubbed his hands down the sides of Rick's neck and across his shoulders. Warmth unlike anything Rick has ever felt seeps into his muscles, forcing back the dizziness and the disjointed feeling that's left him so unfocused. When he hears Hershel leading the paramedics back to them, his vision has cleared enough for him to see Daryl clearly, and the dark face of Badger just over the trainer's shoulder.

 

Two men and a woman in EMS uniforms make their way into the ravine from a direction Rick hadn't noticed. That must have been how Daryl got down to him, and how Hershel was able to get to them as well. They're carrying a back board and a neck brace, and Rick already knows how this is going to go.

 

"Don't leave," he whispers, looking at Daryl the best he can without moving his head. The trainer has to step back to give the paramedics room, but he doesn't go far. He never leaves Rick's line of sight, and Rick swears he can hear the man humming even with the paramedics asking him questions and checking him over.

 

"Not goin' anywhere," Daryl promises. He watches as they lay the back board right beside him. Rick grits his teeth hard enough to make spots dance across his eyes as they transport him onto the hard, cold plastic.

 

"You the one that splinted his leg?" one of the men asks Daryl. The trainer nods shortly, taut as a bowstring and sharp-eyed as a hawk as the two men lift the back board while the woman makes sure the c-collar is secure. Being strapped down isn't Rick's favorite thing, but he knows they're just trying to make sure he stays as immobile as possible.

 

"You did good work," the other one comments. He looks younger, and impressed that someone without prior training could do such a good job. Rick would snap at him, but he's too busy grinding his teeth and trying not to make any pitiful noises. He got shot, for fuck sake. He can handle a concussion and a broken leg.

 

"What did you put on it?" The woman looks at Daryl from over top of Rick, her mouth pulled down into a curious frown.

 

"Poultice," Daryl grunts as he follows them. Badger stays with the trainer, his hooves knocking loose stones and clods of dirt as they make their way up a small bank. The paramedics keep Rick as level as possible, and he can tell that this group of people work together enough to be comfortable with their own special type of silent language. They speak through glances and nods, and in the end, getting up the bank goes a lot more smoothly than Rick was expecting.

 

"Poultice?" The youngest man is focused on his task, but his curiosity gets the better of him. "Like a salve?"

 

"Yeah, s'what it is," Daryl shrugs. Rick can still see him, and smiles when the trainer clears the slope of the bank with a grace that reminds him of a leaping wolf. Badger jumps as well, snorting and getting close enough to the female paramedic that she eyes him nervously.

 

"He's not gonna bite, is he?" she asks warily.

 

"Not if ya ain't gonna give him a reason ta," Rick promises. She looks down at him, her green eyes wide. "He's old an' grumpy, but he ain't vicious. Not like my filly."

 

"You just keep on tellin' me all about her," the paramedic encourages with a smile. "I've loved horses since I was a kid. What's his name?"

 

"Badger." Swallowing and licking his lips, Rick laughs softly. "Got his name 'cause he reminded me of a grumpy old badger."

 

"But he won't bite?"

 

"Nah," Daryl answers this time. "Ain't bitten a single person, s'far as I know."

 

"Can you tell us how this happened?"

 

Rick watches Daryl roll his shoulders back, his head up and his pale eyes meeting the closest paramedic's. "We were out ridin'," he replies. Rick tries not to let his surprise show as Daryl flat-out lies so convincingly that no one questions it. He’s not sure how well he succeeds in his current state. "He got too close ta th' edge, an' they went over 'fore th' mare could get away. I think th' edge gave out from under her."

 

"You ride bareback?" the woman asks. She looks impressed. "No bridle either?"

 

"Don' really need 'em, nah," the trainer shrugs. His hands are in his pockets, his shoulders slowly hunching as the questions continue. If he has to lie, it rolls off his tongue smoothly. When it becomes too personal for him, his answers get quieter, his words choppy. He's gotten so comfortable around Rick and the rest of their group, but clearly strangers showing too much interest is still enough to make him withdraw into himself.

 

The ambulance is parked right on the shoulder of the road, the lights flashing but the siren muted for the moment. The youngest paramedic opens the rear doors and pulls out the gurney; they transport Rick to it quickly and efficiently, and he's grateful for it by then. As careful as they'd been, it's still an experience he never wants to repeat. He'd still rather not be tied down either, but he deals with it and looks for Daryl - his anchor through it all.

 

The trainer is standing outside the ambulance. Rick can't turn his head to see him, but he feels Daryl's presence like a physical, tangible thing. He would swear he still hears the man singing softly, even though the paramedics don't react to it at all. Rick stares at the ceiling of the ambulance and lets the chant filter in, quieting the rush of panic at the thought of being separated from the other man. He knows Daryl isn't allowed to come with them, and he knows not having the trainer in sight at all times isn't going to undo everything that Daryl has already done.

 

Badger breathes against his uninjured leg before the gelding has to back away. Rick bites his lips as he listens to the sound of the doors being closed. The paramedics are talking to each other, checking him over and reading his stats; making notes on charts and getting him ready for the ride to the hospital while Rick strains his ears until his head is pounding and his vision blurs.

 

As they drive away, he swears he can still hear the low, rumbling notes of Daryl's song following on the winds.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeeeyyyyy, looks like it's that time again.
> 
> This chapter and every one after it has been beta'd by the lovely, wonderful katytheinspiredworkaholic, who is just... too great for words.
> 
> Also, I would be honored to dedicate this chapter to mine darling macaroon, who's had a few rough days and will hopefully get a smile out of this. You're a bright, wonderful soul, my sweet, and I am honored and blessed ten times over to know you. <3
> 
> A'right, y'all, enjoy~

"Ya ain't fuckin' _goin_ ', Rick," Daryl shouts. He looks nearly feral, his pale eyes wide and fierce and his dark hair a wild, tangled mess from running his hands through it. This is the first time they've ever really fought about anything, and Rick _hates_ it, but he's not willing to back down without a fight. Unfortunately, Daryl is more than willing to give him one.

 

"I'm perfectly capable of getting around on these," Rick argues. He waves one crutch for emphasis, balancing his weight on the other and scowling. The brief moment of vertigo left over from the concussion is enough to leave him dizzy and frustrated, but he's willing to deal with them to make a point. "I'm her owner, Daryl. I've got to be there!"

 

"Not if ya ain't sound enough ta fuckin' walk without gettin' woozy!" Daryl spits back. He's in this for the long haul, his shoulders squared and his feet braced as he leans forward slightly and pins Rick with a glare that would make a lesser man wither. Rick meets him with a baleful glare of his own, both crutches back on the driveway and his fingers so tight around the padded handles that they're starting to cramp and ache.

 

"I'm comin', Daryl. I'm her owner."

 

"An' I'm tellin' ya, ya ain't fuckin' leavin' this property. I swear ta God, Rick, I'll fuckin' tie ya ta a chair if I gotta." Daryl is breathing hard, his nostrils flaring and his eyes narrowed dangerously. He's just trying to make sure nothing else happens, Rick can understand that, but it's been over a week and he's tired of everyone treating him like he's made of glass. The post-concussion syndrome is leaving him stuck between constantly exhausted and dizzy, with headaches that make him want to hole himself up in his room with the curtains closed until he feels less like he's in danger of driving everyone away. He's been irritable and snappy, and all of them have taken it in stride, but he knows there's a limit to what they will take, and he's trying his best not to get there.

 

"I have to be there," Rick whispers. His head already hurts too much for him to keep yelling. Daryl must be able to see it in his face, and the trainer softens as he comes closer - close enough for Rick to lean against him and press a kiss to the hinge of the his jaw.

 

"I know it's shit, Rick," Daryl says with a gentleness and patience he should have lost long ago. "I know it sucks. But ya gotta _rest_. Ya gotta take it easy, an' haulin' yer ass ta Delta Downs is th' exact opposite'a that."

 

"I want to see her race," Rick sighs. He can feel the fight bleeding out of him, leeched away by his ever-present fatigue and the aura radiating from Daryl as they stand as close as they can get. He smiles when a strong arm curls around his shoulders, nimble fingers running through the curls resting against his nape. He shivers from the feel of it and kisses Daryl's jaw again, a thank you and a sign of affection all in one.

 

"I c'n represent ya," Daryl murmurs. "Let 'em know ya were in an accident. Carol's gonna be here too, an' Hershel said he's gonna pop in ta check on Lays. Ya know ya ain't gonna be alone."

 

"It ain't even that, Daryl." Leaning back, Rick looks toward the trailer. He can see Streak's dark eyes watching him through the gap, and when she sees him looking, she whinnies. The filly is too smart for her own good; she knows something is different about this time, and she already doesn't like it.

 

"Ya wanna see her race, Rick, I get it." Daryl tips his head forward until they're close enough again that they don't have to raise their voices above the softest whispers. "This time, though, it ain't gonna work. I know seein' her on th’ TV ain't th' same as seein' her in person, but it's what's gonna happen. It's what's _gotta_ happen. An' when we get back, we'll celebrate twice as hard, okay?"

 

"This fuckin' sucks."

 

Daryl snorts out an amused huff of air and kisses him softly. Rick kisses back harder, turning it from something gentle and sweet into frustrated passion. The trainer responds by nipping at his lips before opening his mouth for Rick's tongue to slip in. He tastes Daryl with a groan, feeling the way his face and throat prickle with warmth when the other man moans softly into the kiss.

 

When they let themselves settle from heated kisses into softer nuzzles and chaste brushes of their mouths together, Rick finally accepts what he has to do with a nod. "Guess I'll stay here and hold down the fort with Buck," he jokes. Daryl looks pointedly at the heeler, who has been hovering nearby the whole time; looking miserable and dejected until he's given a way to help. Just having them look at him makes him perk up, his head lifted and his tail starting to wag.

 

"Ya watch him, pup," Daryl instructs. Buck chuffs and jerks his head like he's nodding, or trying not to sneeze. It's enough to make Rick smile and laugh, although it's strained from the throbbing headache that's making his eyes sensitive to the morning sunlight. Daryl notices, he always does, and he kisses Rick one last time before stepping back. "Ya go on inside now. Get out'a th' cold an' get s'more sleep."

 

Rick rolls his eyes, but he still smiles at the way Daryl manages to sound like a mother hen and a drill sergeant simultaneously. "Yessir. When y'all get back, we'll have a proper Thanksgiving banquet. I know Carol's been dyin' to have a huge meal with all of us together."

 

"Sounds like heaven ta me," Daryl smiles. "Shit, can't even remember th' last time I celebrated Thanksgivin'."

 

"Get used to it, sweetheart." Unable to help himself whenever Daryl is concerned, Rick cups the man's face and rubs his thumb over one warm, stubble-rough cheek. "Gonna be a whole lot of new celebrations for you, now. Just wait until Christmas rolls around."

 

"Don' ya fuckin' dare, Rick," Daryl grumbles. It's hard to take him seriously when his pale eyes are shining so warmly that Rick barely feels the cool November air trying to cut through his jacket. There's no threat of winter strong enough to chase away how warm and content he always is whenever Daryl's close, those blue eyes still as bright as the summer skies fixed on him like there's nothing else half as important to the trainer. He's Rick's own personal eternal summer in the form of a man that means more to him than he ever thought possible.

 

"You'll have to talk to Carol about that." Laughing, Rick smooths down the front of Daryl's jacket. It's rough and scratchy against his palm - thick wool with a fleece lining rather than something less likely to hold up against Daryl's active lifestyle. The fact that he's even wearing it surprises Rick just a little bit, because it seems like the trainer would rather wear a flannel shirt and let his constant movement warm him as opposed to anything that might restrict him.

 

"Asshole." Daryl is smiling though, warm and fond. Rick feels it like a brush against his cold cheeks, and he can't resist kissing the man one more time. He holds on the best he can, letting one crutch fall so he can wrap his arm around Daryl and keep him close. The thin, soft lips against his part eagerly, letting his tongue curl in to map out Daryl's warm mouth.

 

Rick will never get over what kissing Daryl feels like, or the way the other man reacts to being kissed. His hands fist the back of Rick's thinner jacket, holding on like everything will fade away if he lets go even slightly. The chilly November winds can't touch them like this, the two of them wrapped in a cocoon of warmth that Rick feels just as spiritually as he does physically. There's something so otherworldly and ethereal about the man in his arms - something firmly rooted in mysticism and a magic so natural that Rick's not sure it can be called magic at all. It's still incredible, just like every single other thing about Daryl Dixon.

 

"Love ya so much it hurts ta breathe," he whispers against those warm, eager lips. Daryl shudders against him, making a quiet noise that's somewhere between a moan and a sigh.

 

"Was wonderin' when I'd get ta hear that without ya bein' concussed an' delusional," the trainer murmurs. He smiles at Rick, his eyes so bright that he puts the sun to shame. There's no pain from this light. It's one Rick would gladly bask in for the rest of his life.

 

"You can hear it as often as you want, darlin'. It'll never get any less true." Rick kisses Daryl again, unable to help himself, and he lets the trainer brace him while Daryl reaches down to grab the crutch that fell.

 

"Save some f'r when I get back. It'll be a nice homecomin' present." With one last smile and one last brush of fingers down Rick's sleeve, Daryl heads for the truck. Rick digs his nails into the padded handles and watches the trainer leave. The roar of the engine is nowhere near loud enough to drown out Streak's shrill whinny when she realizes that they're leaving without Rick. She kicks at the walls, the angry boom echoing deep into Rick's soul and making him drop his head in shame. He's nowhere near fast or sound enough to follow the truck and trailer to the end of the driveway, so he lets Buck give them a proper sendoff while he hobbles back toward the porch.

 

Carol comes out with a steaming mug while Rick is lowering himself into what has fast become his favorite chair. It's got a rustic wooden frame, but the padded cushions are so thick that he feels like he's settling onto a cloud every time. It's a tiny comfort right now; his overworked eyes are more focused on straining themselves further to watch Daryl's shadowed form in the driver's seat of the truck. Rick keeps watching until he can't see any part of Daryl or the trailer anymore.

 

"You already look like she just lost her first race," his secretary says with gentle sympathy. She offers the mug, and Rick takes it gratefully. He breathes in the blend of herbs and the sweetness of the honey Carol must have added to the tea to take some of the bitterness away. It's one of Daryl's homemade brews, and whatever it is, it's helped Rick's headaches and his dizziness more often than not. For that reason, he's inclined to keep drinking it rather than his preferred drink, which is coffee.

 

"Is it pathetic that it feels like I've failed her because of this?" Rick asks as he watches Buck come back down the long lane of the driveway. When the heeler gets closer, Rick is stunned by how miserable he looks. His head is down, his tail between his legs, and his ears are drooping off to either side of his head rather than standing proudly. He looks like he could just lay down and cry, which Rick can sympathize with wholeheartedly. "He always look like that when we leave?"

 

"You're not pathetic, Rick," Carol scolds as she sits in the chair beside his. "You haven't failed her either, just like you haven't failed Lays. Accidents happen." She reaches out to pet Buck when he climbs the stairs slowly and lays in front of them. His head is resting on Rick's boot, his dark brown eyes looking mournfully up at his owner as he whines softly. "As for this one, yes. He always gets like this whenever you boys leave. Believe it or not, this isn't the worst I've seen. Probably because you're still here." Her smile is sad and fond as she strokes the heeler's dark, speckled fur. "Usually, when both of you are gone, he won't even come back from the road. He just lays there and waits until one of us gets him. Abraham usually keeps him in the house, because he'll wind up right back up there, waitin' for his boys to come home."

 

Rick reaches down to ruffle Buck's neck fur, smiling when the heeler immediately nuzzles his jacket sleeve and tries to crawl just a little bit closer with a soft whine. "You should know by now we aren't leavin' for good, boy," he murmurs. Buck looks at him with deep brown eyes full of adoration, his tail thumping slowly against the porch floorboards. "Made you a promise, didn't I? You and me against the world, pup. You and me, always."

 

"I don't think he minds that it's not just the two of you anymore." Carol leans forward to rest her elbows on her knees, smiling at the two of them.  Rick glances at her and grins before looking at Buck again.

 

"This one's much improved over the last, believe me." Buck tilts his head and huffs at Rick, picking up on the brief flutter of melancholy the way he's always been able to. He sits up and nuzzles Rick's chin, rubbing his nose into the beard that's slowly overtaken his owner's face. The wet, cold press of the heeler's nose through the dark hairs tickles slightly, and Rick has to chuckle when he feels Buck chew very gently on the thick beard growing along the line of his jaw. It's like he's trying to groom Rick, which is something he hasn't done in a while.

 

They sit in companionable silence for a while, watching the sun slowly make its way across the morning sky. The air warms slightly, but not enough for Rick to forgo his jacket, or the woolen sock stretched over his toes and the front of the cast. Having it propped up constantly is an annoyance - having a broken leg in general is something he's not keen on experiencing again. He's beyond ready to cut the cast off himself, but he knows that he's got to give the broken leg time to mend before he can resort to such drastic measures. Still, he glares down at the dark blue cast until Buck lays his head gently on Rick's knee and looks at him with eyes that are so sad it takes the fight right out of him. He can't help but reach down and pet the heeler's ears, not even minding the twinge of discomfort from the pressure being put on his injured leg.

 

"I know, bud," he murmurs. "I miss him too."

 

"I guarantee he's going to call you as often as he can possibly get away with," Carol says with a soft chuckle. She leans back in her seat and rests a foot up on the ottoman beside Rick's, giving him space but staying close enough to warm his heart at her offer of comfort. "He just knows better than to call while he's driving. He'd never endanger Streak like that, or anyone else."

 

"I know." Resting his head back against the siding of the house, Rick closes his eyes and listens to the birds singing and the fainter noises of the horses as they graze. Lays whinnies from the barn, letting her feelings on being kept inside while she heals known. He hates keeping her cooped up now, especially after she's done so well being turned out. Unfortunately, until she's healed enough to go back to being with Streak all the time, she has to stay in her stall. The best Rick can do is turning her out in one of the empty, flat pastures. Even then, he has to watch to make sure she doesn't overdo it, and she's only allowed out for a little while. Hershel had casted her, and Daryl has been giving the mare herbs to help her heal, but it's only been a little over a week. Even the trainer knows it's going to take time - it just sucks to hear her so obviously unhappy.

 

"You're good for him, Rick." Carol's quiet words make him crack open an eye to look at her. He doesn't say anything, but she can see the twitch of his lips as he thinks of the man who has so completely taken over his heart. Rick has known love throughout his whole life. He loves his parents, he loved Shane as his brother, and he'd loved Lori as his wife. This love that he feels for Daryl is so unlike any of those relationships. Daryl consumes him in a way no one else ever has, and in a way Rick already knows that no one else ever will. The fire and passion cracks like lightning between them; it's as firm and unshakable as the earth beneath their boots. Their passion flows and churns like water, lapping at them with gentle ripples or completely submerging them beneath crashing waves. It hasn't once hurt either of them, and Rick knows that it never will.

 

"I hope so," he smiles.

 

"You are," Carol reiterates. "And he's good for you." She smiles and shakes her head fondly. "The both of you have healed so much in just half a year. Neither of you are the men you were when I first met you."

 

"You met me when I was still a cop," Rick points out. "When I was still married to Lori."

 

"And already using any excuse you could to stay away from home," his secretary agrees knowingly. Rick looks at her fully, and her expression is open and understanding. "You were good at being a cop, Rick. You cared a lot more than a lot of people. You always saw what they never could, and you were driven by something different. You're a strong man, with strong morals, and your loyalty is one of your greatest assets. It's also one of your biggest faults."

 

Carol has a way of stripping through bullshit to get right to the point of the matter. She's used it against Rick before, but never like this. Her words cut in a way that flays him open, but no pain or agony bleeds from the wounds. He doesn't feel the urge to flinch away or fight back. Rick examines what Carol has said, mulling it over and finding the irrefutable truth in what his friend is telling him. When he makes the connection, it's like flowers unfurling in the morning light after closing to sleep beneath the moon.

 

"I stayed with Lori out of loyalty, not love," he says. Carol gives him a gentle, open look, and Rick smiles wryly. "I'd known that already, Carol. She and I, we weren't working out. We hadn't been, toward the end. But I'd made a vow to her, and I was gonna stick by it until there wasn't another choice."

 

"I made that same vow," Carol agrees. She looks out across the driveway, and as if on cue, they hear Abraham's jeep turn off the road and start heading down the lane. Her smile is brighter than the sun, and warmer than the summer winds, although it's nowhere near as fleeting. It blooms across her face and stays there, relaxing her pixie-like features and making her blue eyes twinkle. She's more beautiful than ever when she smiles - more beautiful having found her strength than she ever was when Rick first met her. She's not afraid anymore, and to Rick, that's more beautiful than any model striding down a runway, or any eyelids or lips painted with color to make them more appealing.

 

Rick has always appreciated true, unaltered beauty. And to him, that's a quiet man with broad shoulders and a shy, crooked smile - pale blue eyes and a heart big enough to give any creature a home, no matter how big or small. It's the smell of woods and smoke and horses, and the pride of a wild mustang running free beneath a vast, open sky.

 

Daryl is Rick's kind of beauty, and Carol knows it, if the way her smile turns mischievous when she looks at him again is any indication. "Just because we make a promise doesn't mean it will stick," she murmurs. "Especially when the one we make that promise with has no intention of holding up their end."

 

"Daryl wouldn't do that," Rick rumbles. But they're not talking about Daryl, not like that, and the triumphant gleam in Carol's eyes makes him dip his own head in understanding.

 

"You're good for him," Carol repeats one more time. She rests her hand on his arm and squeezes. "And he's good for you. Don't let anything else hold you back from that."

 

"I won't," he promises. He means it, too. Nothing short of Daryl deciding to leave on his own will keep Rick from being with the man he's come to love more than he ever believed possible. "He's mine, and I'm his, until he decides this isn't what he wants anymore."

 

"Even death can't break apart two souls that were meant to be one," Carol says. Abraham pulls up in front of the barn and parks, and Sophia is patient enough to wait for him to turn the Jeep off before tumbling out of the passenger's side with a laugh that's as sweet as honeysuckle. Carol chuckles softly and looks toward Rick again, her final words soft and whispered into the space between them, with no one to bear witness but Buck. "If it's his choice, Rick, then there's no life you two won't find each other in."

 

She leaves Rick to think that over with a smile on his lips and a warmth surrounding him that chases away the fog of medication and pain. It settles around his heart in a way that reminds him of strong arms and pale, sweet eyes, and a soft, raspy laugh that's as playful as the breeze. It makes him miss Daryl, even though the man hasn't been gone for more than an hour at least. He can't wait for the trainer to come back home so Rick can have him in his arms and by his side again.

 

It's the best feeling of coming home he's found in another person.

 

\--

 

Rick is falling asleep on the couch when Buck starts barking. It's not his usual bark, and it's so completely unexpected that Rick jolts up from where he's been dozing against the cushions and hisses in pain when he kicks the leg of the coffee table with his good foot. The book he was trying to read tumbles to the floor and lands spine-up, the pages inside mussed and bent from the impact. Buck is still barking, scrabbling at the front door and growling in a way Rick is not at all used to hearing.

 

"Buck," he calls as he reaches for his crutches. By the time he gets himself sorted and heads for the door, he can hear a car coming down the driveway. It doesn't sound like an engine he's familiar with, and he glances out the closest window to see if Abraham's jeep is still parked in front of the barn. It is, although he can't see the farrier or Carol anywhere just from his quick check.

 

"Buck!" Rick shouts again when the heeler doubles his efforts. With winter creeping closer every day, he’s started shutting the front door to keep out the chill. It isn't usually an issue, but Buck is so worked up right now that he's leaving behind marks on the wood as he claws at it and growls out quick, deep huffs mixed with short, aggressive barks.

 

"Away!" Rick finally snaps. Buck drops down and backs away from the door, but he doesn't go far. He paces, growling, and keeps close enough to get between Rick and the opening if he needs to. The rancher opens the door enough to see who the hell has showed up that might possibly make Buck react the way he is, squinting against the light that spills in.

 

About the time Rick's eyesight adjusts enough to get a proper look, a silver Saturn pulls into the circular part of the driveway. It creeps along slowly toward the house, almost as if the driver isn't sure if they're in the right place - or they're worried about the kind of greeting they'll receive. Rick can see two figures, but he can't make out the features of either of them. He opens the door wider and uses a crutch to keep Buck from bolting out; keeping the flimsy barrier of the screen door between himself and the vehicle. Instincts no longer so relied on but still far from rusty kick in, and he analyzes the vehicle approaching him.

 

It's sleek and well-maintained, although being so far out in the country, and its acquired a layer of dirt that highlights just how wrong its presence is in a place like Rick's ranch. It clearly doesn't belong here, and he wonders if they're from the city and they took a wrong turn somewhere. It happens on occasion, though it's been awhile since tourists wound up in Rick's neck of the woods.

 

"Stay," he rumbles at Buck, putting enough warning into his tone to let the heeler know he's not messing around. Buck grumbles but sits, his lips curling and his hackles raised. He stays though, and Rick leaves the main door open as he unlatches the screen door and shoulders his way out onto the porch to see who's ended up this far out of their comfort zone.

 

The steady grumble of the engine cuts off when the driver kills the ignition. Rick waits at the top of the stairs, frowning and ignoring the way the back of his neck is prickling. He has a bad feeling, but there's not much he can do aside from threatening to call the cops or hoping Abraham or Carol shows up to offer backup just in case. Either that, or he can let Buck out and hope he's intimidating enough to make these people change their mind about harassing a man on crutches.

 

As Rick watches, the driver's side door opens and a boot comes out to brace against the gravel. Fingers curl around the top of the car door, and Rick already feels his heart thudding painfully, even before the body in the driver's seat starts to unfold himself out of the car in a way that is still so familiar to Rick that it makes his chest ache from memories he'd long since let himself forget.

 

Not much about Shane has changed in the seven years since they last came face to face. His hair is still a mess of curls, looking just as unruly as always and in desperate need of a comb. There's still stubble on his cheeks and jaw, more shadowing his throat when he tilts his head to look at Rick. Those dark eyes are still as wide and penetrative as always, even with the easy smile stretching across the face of the man Rick once called brother.

 

"Well I'll be damned," Shane drawls as his grin widens to show his teeth. Rick sees the dimples that Shane always hated - the wrinkles in the shirts he never cared enough to iron out. Shane was always a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of man. He didn't sugarcoat shit, and he never backed down from a challenge. Rick remembers how competitive he was, and yet how easy it always was to fall into his friendly nature and circle Shane Walsh like a planet orbiting around the sun.

 

Despite his flaws and his faults, Shane was still a good man. He'd been Rick's best friend for so long; long before Atlanta and the shooting that left Rick without the pillar of support Shane had always been for him before. Without Lori's softer worry and the flatness in her eyes that Rick had become accustomed to by then.

 

The pain is like a fresh wound, but it's not one that's crippling. Rick meets Shane’s grin with a smaller smile of his own, and he can see the pain reflected in those chocolate brown eyes - a wariness that is so out of character for Shane. He's never been stupid, though. After all these years, after everything that happened, he knows he can't expect an exuberant greeting from Rick. He hasn't come here expecting beers and laughter and steaks on the grill.

 

So why is he here?

 

The passenger door opens next; thankfully Rick is already prepared as he watches Lori step gracefully out of the car. He looks at her with a numbness that makes his emotions feel mercifully dulled, and she looks at him from behind the protective curtain of her long bangs. She's just as wary as Shane, if not more so, and Rick honestly wonders why they've bothered to come at all if they're already looking at him like he's going to shoot them.

 

"I turned in my gun when I turned in my badge," he tells them flatly. His words are quiet, but there's enough that he doesn't say packed into each syllable that Shane drops his head and Lori flinches. Buck growls loud enough to be heard from just inside the door, and Rick glances back over his shoulder at the heeler before facing the two people standing uncertainly in his driveway.

 

"You look good, Rick," Shane starts after clearing his throat. He glances down at the cast and grins sheepishly. "Well, mostly."

 

"What happened?" Lori asks. She looks worried, a hand pressed to her mouth and her eyes wide. Rick looks at both of them and feels his heart twist. He accepted what happened and moved on, but seeing them after so long and remembering the times he shared with both of them is leaving him feeling dizzy and disoriented. There's something bubbling up inside of him, something sticky and nasty that makes him feel sick; leaving him torn between wanting to shout at them and wanting to throw the closest things he can get his hands on until they get in their pretty car and get the fuck off his property.

 

"Why are you here?" Looking between the two of them, Rick swallows the rumble building in his chest and that threatens to roar like thunder and strike like lightning. It's a storm that's brewing, gearing up to be something torrential and destructive. It's been a long time since he's felt anything close to this, and he can't decide if it's because they've shown up so shortly after his talk with Carol, or if it's because they've shown up at all.

 

It's a lot easier to forgive someone when you never have to face them again. Seeing the diamond on Lori's ring finger and the gold band on Shane’s, Rick is forced to see what they've done all over again, and relive the betrayal in a new way, almost a fucking decade later.

 

"I told Carol I wanted to see you," Lori starts. There's something accusatory in her voice and the way her lips thin - the worried façade slipping away to be replaced by a coolness that puts Rick's hackles up. "You never called."

 

"I deleted your numbers," Rick replies with a shrug. "There wasn't really anything to talk about."

 

"C'mon, man, don't be like that." Shane steps closer, lifting a hand like he's going to reach out and touch Rick. Just the thought is enough to make him recoil, and Shane looks like he's been gutted for a second before he schools his features and lets his hand drop back to his side. "Rick, we've missed you. We wanted to see how you've been doin' here." He cuts his sentence off oddly, and Rick knows what was supposed to follow - a title that Shane no longer has the privilege to, and the other man knows it.

 

"I've been fine," Rick says. He looks past them, out toward the closest pasture, and he smiles when he sees Slicker and Shadow pressed up against their fence to watch the newcomers with curiosity. Seeing his horses, and feeling Buck when the heeler stalks out of the house and sits pressed against his leg, gives Rick the strength he needs to look at Lori and Shane again. "Was that it?"

 

"Don't be like that," Lori snaps. Rick can see the guilt and anger in her eyes - can see how her lips pinch as she struggles to control her temper. "We're trying to be civil, Rick. You could at least attempt to do the same."

 

Rick's laugh is a bitter, humorless sound. "At what point have I not been civil?" he asks harshly. They step back, and Shane puts his hand between Lori's shoulders. "You asked for my understanding, and I gave it. You asked me to let you go, and I agreed. I forgave you for cheating, Lori. We divorced on good terms. And then the both of you went off and _left_. The two people who I was closest to. The wife who _fucked my best friend_ while I was in a coma, and the friend who abandoned me when I came out of the hospital so he could _go_ _fuck the woman I had just divorced_. Do either of you have _any_ idea what that was like?"

 

Both of them look stunned by Rick's outburst. There are tears in Lori's eyes, and Shane won't meet his hard stare. Buck is growling again, and Lays screams from the barn. He hears the dull thud of the mare kicking her door, and when she whinnies again, he hears the other horses answer one by one. Slicker backs away from the fence and rears, pawing at the air and whinnying angrily.

 

"I'm not mad that the two of you found happiness in each other," Rick continues once the noise dies down enough for him to be heard. He feels exhausted suddenly, and he sees Abraham come around the far side of the barn and prowl closer like a wolf. The man has nothing in his hands, but Rick knows that's not going to matter if he thinks violence is necessary. He's seen Abraham take down men twice his weight in bar fights before. Shane might be trained to handle himself in a brawl, but Abraham won't make it easy for him.

 

"Then why are you being so childish?" Lori whispers. Rick gives her a pointed look, and she can't meet his eyes for long before guilt has her turning her face away to stare at the gravel between her shoes.

 

"I don't see this as being childish." Adjusting his hold on his crutches, Rick frees a hand and rubs it tiredly over his face. His eyes burn and his lungs feel tight, but the storm in his chest is dying down. It's slowly getting easier to breathe, even though his heart still feels like it's been torn open and left to beat weakly while harsh winds whip across the exposed wounds. "I gave you both my blessing, but I never realized that by doing so, I'd be left behind. So, I did what I had to do. I moved on. I did the physical therapy, and I fought myself the whole way. I found friends who wouldn't let me give up and wouldn't leave, and I figured out what to do with myself after I handed in my badge. I found my haven here, and I made it my home. So no, Lori, I'm not being _childish_." He spits the word like it's a disgusting slur, and he feels no satisfaction in the way she flinches again. "I think, after everything, I was entitled to a bit of space."

 

"We thought you'd need time, Rick," Shane protests. It sounds weak, and the man must realize it, because he fists a hand in his hair and tugs harshly while shaking his head. "Rick, man, you gotta understand. We know what we did was fucked up." Lori shoots him a look, but Shane either doesn't notice or pretends not to. "We didn't think you were gonna wake up, man and I know that ain't an excuse. Afterwards, you told us it was fine. You guys got divorced. We figured you needed some time. We weren't tryin' to abandon you, bro-"

 

"Don't," Rick hisses. "Don't you dare, Shane. You lost that right. You lost that bond when the two of you didn't even bother _asking_ if I wanted you to leave. I thought everything was okay. One day I had my family, and the next day I had nothing. You don't get to _brother_ me, Shane Walsh. I have my family. As of right now, the two of you aren't included in it."

 

"Sounds to me like y'all have overstayed your welcome," Abraham says from directly behind Lori and Shane. He's come up on them without making a sound, and he's grinning when they both whirl around in surprise. Shane squares his shoulders and draws himself up, and the farrier levels him with an unimpressed sneer. "I believe this man has asked you both to leave," he rumbles dangerously. "I'd hop to it if y'all don't want the authorities involved."

 

"I _am_ a cop," Shane retorts.

 

Abraham's answering grin is wolfish. "That right?" he chuckles. "Guess you know the law pretty well then, officer. Best get in your fancy wheels and mosey on out'a here before your higher ups start askin' why you saw fit to harass an injured man on his own property, way out in the middle of nowhere."

 

Shane turns to look at Rick, asking a question with the dip of his shoulders and the tilt of his head. It reminds Rick of just how in-tune they used to be; how they could carry on full conversations without saying a single word. Those days are long gone now, and Rick doesn't bother trying to decipher what Shane is begging to know. He gives his answer simply by turning away from them and looking at Carol, who is standing in the open doorway with sorrow darkening her eyes.

 

That makes Rick pause, and he turns back to glance at the two people standing in his driveway. They look so lost and hurt. It makes him think, and rationalize, and he hates himself for it a little bit, but Rick can understand where they're coming from without the betrayal squeezing his ribcage in a vice grip.

 

When it comes down to it, Rick feels like he lost part of his family. And when he really thinks about it, and _lets_ himself think about it, Lori and Shane lost the same thing he did. They still had each other, but Rick had Carol, and Abraham, and all the others that have become his family through the years. He's got Daryl now, and thinking of the trainer is enough to make him smile and take that final step toward healing completely.

 

"The next time you want to show up," he calls, and he watches Lori and Shane tense before they look up at him. They're probably expecting more angry words, and this time, Rick lets himself feel satisfied by their startled expressions when they see him smile. "Next time, don't just show up. Call ahead. Make sure I'm home. Leave the attitude on the road."

 

"Rick," Shane whispers. He looks so hopeful - like he's hurting just as bad as Rick, and all he wants is to figure out how to fix the gaping rift between them. He looks like he wants them to be _brothers_ again, and it makes Rick's smile just a little warmer.

 

"I said _right_ _now_ ," he reminds them quietly. "I didn't say _never_." Shifting to try and put less strain on his aching side, Rick uses the closest support beam to lean against. Buck lays at his feet, looking regal and serious as he watches the people that once meant everything standing in front of him. It reminds Rick of a king sizing up his subjects while they wait tensely to hear their fate.

 

Covering his mouth to hide his quiet laugh, he looks at Shane and Lori again; takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders as he chooses his next words carefully. "This time, I am asking for you to give me the time you thought I needed before. I'm not brushing you off. I've just got a lot going on right now. I need time to clear my head, and my schedule."

 

"If you need it, you got it," Shane promises fervently. Lori nods, looking lighter and more than a little relieved when she smiles at him.

 

"We never meant to hurt you like this, Rick," she says with quiet sorrow. Rick nods and leaves it at that - acknowledging the words and leaving time and fate to decide the validity of them. "We heard about your filly," she adds, and that surprises Rick. "She's doing really well. I'm so happy that you have all of this."

 

"I am too," Rick agrees. His smile is more genuine when he looks out at his home, the late-November sun warming his cold cheeks and the trees still stubbornly holding onto the last of their leaves for as long as they can. "This ranch has done a lot for me. The horses have done even more."

 

"I hear it's not just the horses." Rick can detect no hint of malice in Lori's tone, or find any in the way she's standing. But then, he's never been able to read her the way he could read Daryl. "I heard you found someone," she adds. Her smile is sweet and gentle, and Rick can see more of the woman he'd first loved now than he could by the end of their marriage. It makes him feel fond from the memories of their good times, but it's a faint warmth compared to the heat Daryl stirs in his blood now. "I hope you're happy with her."

 

"He makes me happier than I've been in years," Rick says honestly. It's not a jab, or a reminder of bitter times. It's frank, bold honesty, and neither Shane nor Lori react with any negativity when what he's just admitted registers with them. In fact, they both smile wider.

 

"What's his name?" Lori asks curiously. Rick thinks of pale blue eyes and shy, crooked smiles, and the love that fills him chases away the last of the ache - healing the hurts and soothing his soul. Rick sighs it out with his next breath; let's it roll off his tongue in a collection of syllables that are so much more than just a name.

 

"Daryl. His name is Daryl."

 

"Daryl," Shane repeats. He looks like he's tasting the name, trying to determine something he could never hope to understand. There's no describing what Daryl means to him, not in any way Rick could ever hope to put into words. Whatever is in his voice must resonate they must get, because they both smile. The last of the lingering tension diffuses, leaving behind a lightness that blankets them and makes the straight line of Abraham's shoulders relax. The farrier grins and steps aside to let Lori and Shane get back to their car; looking past Rick to his wife, who steps onto the porch and lays a gentle hand on Rick's forearm.

 

"I'm so proud of you," Carol whispers. She hugs Rick, and he returns the affectionate gesture the best he can. Pressing his nose into her hair, he breathes in the smell of something that reminds him of wildflowers, and the unique scent that anyone that interacts with horses inevitably ends up acquiring in some way.

 

"Thank you," he murmurs. Pressing a kiss to her hair, Rick moves back and grabs the crutch he'd set aside. "I think I need a nap after that. And some more pain medicine."

 

"I'll bring you some with your tea," his secretary chuckles. She sends him on his way with a gentle nudge, and Rick is happy to follow her silent instruction. He pauses long enough to watch the silver Sedan as it turns slowly and drives away, and goes inside with Buck after he can't see or hear it any longer.

 

The couch welcomes him with a quiet creak, and Rick groans as he lowers himself onto it. He shifts until he can prop his casted foot on one arm, letting the other foot rest on the floor. For a moment, he lays there with an arm over his face and just breathes slowly as he processes everything that just happened.

 

Buck whines softly, pulling him from his whirling thoughts, and Rick tucks his arm between himself and the back of the couch; turning his head to look at the heeler. He smiles when Buck whines again, and accepts the prod of a dark, wet nose against his cheek.

 

"Get up here, pup," he laughs. "Quit fussin', c'mon." He's no sooner said the words when he's got forty-five pounds of wriggling canine climbing onto his lap. Rick braces himself just in case, but there's no need. Buck has always been attuned to him far more than any other dog Rick has had in his life. He avoids the rancher's broken limb and settles with his head resting on Rick's belly, warm and soft and comforting in a way that makes Rick sigh happily and run his fingers through the heeler's neck fur.

 

Carol finds them in the same position five minutes later, when she brings in a steaming mug and Rick's pain medicine. He swallows the pills with a burning mouthful of lightly-sweetened tea, smiling afterwards and setting the mug on the coffee table. The flavors are mild enough not to overpower his tastebuds, and the way the tea warms his belly makes him sink back into the couch with a contented sigh.

 

"Thank you, Carol," he murmurs. She smiles and strokes his curls back from his face; presses a kiss to his forehead in a way that reminds him of what his mother used to do when he was a child and he didn't feel well.

 

"Get some rest," his secretary coaxes. She scratches behind Buck's ears before leaving them as quietly as she'd come. Rick closes his eyes and pets Buck's head; cracking an eye open to look at the heeler's speckled muzzle and the tan fur that trails down either side if his throat; the patch of black that takes up most of the left side of his face and gives his dog a unique, distinctive appearance. Rick can remember when Buck was a puppy, and the months he'd spent wondering if his pup would _ever_ decide what color he wanted his face to be. Looking at him now, he thinks Buck has decided on something perfect.

 

"Don't know what I'd ever do without you, bud," he hums. Buck licks his palm and noses at his jacket sleeve, sneezing before he makes himself more comfortable. Rick has to laugh at the sight they must make. He's also glad be had the foresight to buy couches with the thought of this in mind.

 

Rick's phone buzzes in his pocket, and he digs it out already knowing whose name he's doing to see on the screen. Sure enough, it's Daryl, and he swipes his thumb to unlock his phone so he read the text.

 

_Traffic jams are boring as fuck when you ain't here to amuse me._

 

Chuckling, Rick manages to free both hands so he can type out his reply without sounding like he's drunk, or in the third grade.

 

_Wouldn't have happened if you'd let me come along, sweetheart._

 

Less than a minute later, his screen lights up and buzzes with Daryl's reply.

 

_Guess it just gives me time to look forward to seein that beard again, mountain man._

 

This kind of boldness is new, and Rick is thoroughly enjoying it. Daryl's snark warms him down to his toes and makes arousal sing through him, although without the trainer right in front of him, it's muted enough for Rick to ignore - more of a soothing prickle than a blazing heat.

 

_I love you so much it hurts to breathe sometimes. You know that?_

 

Daryl's answer is fast and full of fondness. _I might have some idea. Still like hearin it, though._

 

Before Rick can respond, his phone buzzes again.

 

_Traffic's moving. Talk later._

 

Rick tries not to feel disappointed. _Drive safe. Call when you're settled in._

 

_Yes dad._

 

Snorting hard enough to make Buck's head jerk up, Rick closes his phone and shoves it back into his pocket. He relaxes on his couch, petting the heeler to soothe him, and smiles up at the ceiling as he wills the hours to tick by faster so he can hear that low, raspy voice rumble warmly in his ear.

 

He falls asleep still smiling, without ever taking his jacket off.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MONDAY'S HERE.
> 
> I'm so overworked and tired but god damn it I'm still determined to write and get this stuff out to y'all the best I can. So here we are!
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely katytheinspiredworkaholic. I am forever in her debt.
> 
> Enjoy!

Streak wins the Delta Downs Jackpot by three lengths, and Rick can feel his filly's rage through the television screen as if he's right there beside Daryl watching her run. It's one of the most incredible things he's ever seen, and he's screaming himself hoarse with Abraham and Carol while they replay the highlights and he sees his horse in action again.

 

Right from the start, he'd known that something was different. Streak had damn near broken the gate as soon as she heard the buzzer, and after she was free, all hell broke loose. It reminds Rick of how she was before Daryl came into their lives - wild and uncontrolled and ready to rip apart anything in her path.

 

The announcer had sounded shocked as he'd narrated the placings, but Rick had barely heard him over the roaring in his ears. His vision had narrowed down to just Streak and her opponents, all of his focus on his filly while his heart threatened to pound right out of his chest. He'd barely heard Carol and Abraham as they cheered her on; Rick already felt like he was there, surrounded by the thunder of hoofbeats and the snorts of horses ready to push themselves to their limits doing the one thing they loved more than anything else.

 

From the beginning, Streak had kept toward the front of the herd. There had been something almost _mean_ about the way she worked herself through the cluster of jockeys and colts, her ears laid flat and her attitude carving a path almost by itself. Rick had never watched her run like this before, with cameras catching the different angles and showing the race in a way he'd grown unused to seeing.

 

Half way through the race, they watched Sasha give Streak her head. It was sooner than usual, but the jockey must have realized by then what Rick had seen right away - Streak was hell bent on running, and she was going to do it no matter what anyone else said.

 

As soon as she had her freedom, Streak went for it. She almost took out the horse in front of her, swerving dangerously close to the colt before Sasha brought her out around and showed her clear track. After that, all the jockey had to do was hold on, because Streak put her head down and ran faster than Rick has ever seen her run. Something was driving her, something that possessed the filly and made her nearly rabid. Even after she crossed the finish line and the bleachers erupted with cheers and howls, she barely slowed down. It took Sasha reigning her in with more force than usual to get the filly to stop, and Rick watched a form he knew was Daryl as the man jumped over the low fence and came out to help get Streak under control.

 

Once it's over, Rick sits back and breathes harshly, feeling like he's run a marathon even though he hasn't left his couch since almost eight o'clock this morning. The adrenaline is still coursing through him, suspending him somewhere between the feeling of flying and wanting to go out and run himself even though that part isn't an option right now. All he can do is grin stupidly and watch the post-race announcements.

 

Before anyone can say anything, the image shifts and Daryl and Streak are suddenly filling the television screen. Rick sucks in a breath and leans forward again, hungrily devouring the image of the trainer as the field reporter asks him questions. That low, rough voice rolls over him, filling his ears and making his eyes shut as he wraps himself up in the raspy, sweet words. He feels like he could sink into the satisfaction he hears coming from the younger man and never try to come back out of it. It's worlds different than the first time Daryl stood in front of him and spoke with dampened pride; resigned to never being appreciated by anyone because of a last name that was more of a curse in his mind than anything else. There's none of that present now, and Rick finds that even more appealing when added with the pale blue eyes that shine from beneath the brim of a familiar Stetson. He opens his eyes again to watch, drinking it all in like a man dying of thirst.

 

"You're the trainer of Devil's Pride, aren't you?" the reporter asks curiously before angling the microphone back toward Daryl to catch what he's saying.

 

"Yeah," he agrees with an awkward, crooked smile that makes Rick bite his lip hard enough to nearly break the skin.

 

"I heard Mr. Grimes wasn't able to make it because of an injury, so you're representing him. The two of you must be so proud of your filly. That was an amazing race she ran today. Do you think she'll keep going like this?"

 

"I think she's got plenty left ta show," Daryl murmurs. The filly rests her muzzle against his shoulder and watches the camera with wide, curious eyes. He reaches back and scratches her face seemingly without thinking about it, and Rick watches his smile gentle even further until he's glowing in a way that has nothing to do with the sunlight.

 

"Your goal is to get her to the Derby, right? Do you think she has what it takes?"

 

"I think she does," the trainer nods. "All she needs is th' chance ta show ya."

 

The reporter turns to interviewing Sasha next, leaving Daryl free to slip away and hover just out of view while he waits for the questions to finish. Rick is itching to grab his phone and call the man, but he knows he needs to be patient. After seeing more pride and joy in his face than anyone else might be able to recognize, he's finding it very hard.

 

"That damn filly," Abraham whistles. He slaps his knee and laughs, shaking his head and grinning at Rick. "Wouldn't have believed it before that boy showed up on your door like some lost mutt eager for a meal. It's like a damn magic trick that never ends. Makes me wonder what miracle he's gonna pull out'a that hat next."

 

"Something we've never seen before," Carol chuckles. She presses a kiss to her husband's cheek and stands to get another beer; glancing at Rick and holding up the empty bottle in question. He can't have alcohol with his medication, but he knows she'd bring him a bottle of water instead. Even so, he shakes his head; nodding his thanks afterwards and still feeling so happy he's amazed he's not floating away. That's one of the many powers Daryl seems to possess - he's got such a strong hold over Rick and his heart that the trainer might as well have him wrapped around his little finger. Rick has no problem with it, because for Daryl to even have that much sway over him shows just how far he's come in half a year.

 

"You are one lucky son of a bitch," Abraham tells Rick seriously as Carol slips into the kitchen. When Rick looks at the farrier, his smile is still a little too goofy for someone his age, but it doesn't seem to matter. He's too happy to control himself. The redhead laughs kindly and reaches over to clap him on the shoulder - hard enough to startle Buck. The heeler sits up quickly, huffing at being disturbed even as his tail wags in slow sweeps and knocks against Rick's bare foot.

 

"I'm probably the luckiest," Rick agrees; reaching out to grip Abraham's shoulder and squeeze just as his phone starts to buzz on the couch beside his leg. He scrambles to pick it up, hardly noticing when Abraham leaves to join his wife in the kitchen so that Rick can have some privacy when he answers with a breathless, "Hey there, darlin'."

 

"Hey," Daryl murmurs. He sounds elated, like he's flying just as high as Rick even though he's quieter in his celebration. "Did ya see?"

 

"Oh, I saw." Leaning back against the couch again, Rick sinks into the cushions and smiles. He closes his eyes and tips his head back, holding the image of Daryl's small, crooked smile in his mind. "Feels good, doesn't it?"

 

"Feels like one'a th' best things in my life," the trainer admits quietly, like he's imparting a secret he's too afraid to announce the way he should. "Prolly th' third on th' list."

 

"Yeah?" Playing the game he can sense with an anticipation that makes his skin buzz, Rick slouches down a little more and licks his lips before swallowing. He knows Daryl can hear it, if the quiet noise that echoes across the connection is any indication. "What are the first two?"

 

"Second one's definitely meetin' this filly in th' first place." There's a rustle over the line, like Daryl's only now sitting down and getting comfortable in whatever nook he's tucked himself in, probably hidden away from everyone else. Rick knows he's still in the barn, because he can hear the muffled sounds of people and horses in the background.

 

"And the first?" Rubbing at his chin, Rick feels the drag of his beard across his palm and plays into his imagination. He makes it shorter, and just a little rougher. The features under his fingers change in his mind, becoming strong but delicate - a fine balance of beauty and power that so wonderfully becomes the object of his heart's adoration.

 

"Guess that'd hafta be you, for givin' me th' chance no one else would've after Dale sent me yer way," Daryl whispers. His voice is thick and low, made tinny by the phone speaker but still rumbling deep into Rick's bones and carving a home into them. He shivers with a grin, rumbling in return and hearing Daryl's sharp, quiet gasp.

 

"You're so damn amazin', darlin'. I love you so much it hurts to breathe. You know that?"

 

"Think I do," Daryl agrees shakily. "Fuck, Rick, ya gotta stop sayin' that kind'a shit."

 

"Stop sayin' what, sweetheart?" Pushing himself up, Rick rests his elbow on the arm of the couch and looks out the closest front window. He can see the back half of Daryl's motorcycle and  watches the sunlight play over the gleaming chrome - imagines his lover riding the bike, the wind whipping his hair everywhere and his smile brighter than the sun. "I miss you. Can't wait for you to come home again."

 

"To your home, Rick," Daryl says quietly. There's nothing that makes Rick think of sadness in his voice; only his perception of truth that couldn't be further from the real thing.

 

"To _our_ home, Daryl," Rick corrects him. "Just as much yours as mine. Every inch of it."

 

"In that case, when I get back, we should go out for a ride." There's no salacious undertone in what Daryl whispers to him as gently as the first, warm spring breezes. There _is_ something deep and powerful, something as ancient as the earth and as deeply rooted as the oldest trees. It resonates like magic in Rick's blood, tingling through him until his skin is buzzing for an entirely different reason than it was before.

 

"Have you got any place particular in mind, or are we just going wherever our hearts take us?" he asks. It doesn't matter to him either way. He'll follow Daryl to the ends of the earth and beyond, no matter what it takes. He'll go wherever the trainer leads him; sink into those pale, entrancing eyes the way he'd dive into a pool. He'll surround himself with everything Daryl is, and everything the trainer means to him, and he'll never come back to the surface for air. He'll have no need to.

 

"Got a place in mind." There's a lightness in Daryl's voice that Rick doesn't often hear - something that makes the rancher smile and reminds him of eagerness. There isn't a lot outside of working with the horses that seems to drive Daryl; nothing that holds his attention the way Rick and the beasts always manage to. Hearing that wistful, hopeful tone when Daryl mentions whatever place he's thinking of makes Rick all the more eager to see it.

 

"You wanna elaborate, sugar?" Smiling at the banter, Rick drags his teeth over his lower lip and imagines the blush painting itself across Daryl's face to go along with the quiet sound he just heard. It's muffled, like the trainer is trying to mask it behind a hand, but to Rick it's as clear as if he was standing in front of the other man. "You like that one?"

 

"Yer fuckin' nicknames," Daryl huffs, but he sounds too warm and fond to be exasperated. They let silence settle between them, comfortable enough in each other to not need a constant flow of conversation. Rick is more than content to listen to the sound of Daryl breathing evenly in his ear; the slight rustle of him shifting on whatever he's sitting on, and the indistinct noises of the horses settling down for the night in the background. When Rick is balanced between awake and that relaxed state of drifting, he hears Daryl clear his throat to speak again and focuses in to listen to what he's saying. "How's your leg?"

 

Rick looks at the cast and wrinkles his nose; wiggling his toes and feeling the ache of it. It's a faded, inconsequential pain compared to the healing bone, so he can overlook it easier. "Healing well, or so I'm assuming. Whatever's in your tea is working wonders for me. I guess that's another recipe you'll have to share with me soon, huh?"

 

"I'll share th' world," Daryl murmurs, his voice somewhere between trembling and firm as he battles his own insecurities. "Th' sky, th' breeze, th' earth beneath our feet - all'a this..." A pause, a deep breath, and Daryl's voice comes across the static as clear as the sky Rick constantly compares his eyes to. "An' m'heart."

 

It's the closest he's come to saying _I love you_ , and the warmth that swells in Rick makes his scalp tingle like fingers are running through his messy curls. Grinning, he closes his eyes and brings a hand up to run over his mouth, honored and abundantly pleased to finally hear his devotions reciprocated in a way that means so much to the both of them. It's easy enough to say _I love you_ without any meaning behind the words. Daryl takes that phrase and transforms it into something so unlike anything Rick has ever heard before. He puts everything into it, wrapping Rick up in a sweet-smoke scented cloud; settling lightly against his skin like an impenetrable armor that will never restrict him.

 

"You and me, sunshine," he murmurs. "Nothin' but us and the natural world."

 

"Nothin'," Daryl agrees with a whisper-soft conviction that rings as loudly as tolling bells. After a moment, as the last vibrations fade away, he huffs warmly. "Sunshine?"

 

"Seemed fittin' to me," Rick defends playfully. He switches the phone to his other ear when his hand starts to cramp, cradling the skin-warmed plastic between his cheek and shoulder. "You're as wild and free as the skies, darlin'. As bright as the sun, too. Take your pick."

 

"Your wild sky, huh?" The way it rings in Rick's ear sounds even better than sunshine - even better than when he's thought it to himself before. It's damn near perfect, since Daryl frequently shines more brightly than the sun in his mind anyway. Out of every nickname and endearing term he's let roll off his tongue for Daryl, none have even come close to this feeling of rightness - like it was always meant to be.

 

Smiling, Rick hums low in his throat. "My wild sky," he agrees. "My light, my joy, and my heart. Sounds like you, all right."

 

"Yer sappy as fuck, ya know that?" Daryl sounds far from annoyed, laughing quietly in a way that reminds Rick of rich, thick molasses. It makes heat spark in his belly, unfurling in tendrils that crawl up his spine and drape lower; warming his legs and pulsing through him in slow, easy waves of arousal.

 

"Only for you, sweetheart," he rumbles. Daryl's breath hitches, a quick little inhale that shudders out of him and tells Rick everything he needs to know. "Wish you were here right now, you know that?"

 

"Yeah, I know it," the trainer whispers.

 

Rick licks his lips, even though Daryl can't see it. "You got any idea what I want to do to you?"

 

"Fuck," Daryl hisses, and Rick's laugh is deep and low.

 

"Among other things, yeah." Glancing toward the kitchen, he shifts a little lower and squeezes his thigh with a quiet groan. "The things I'd do, darlin'."

 

"Yeah?" Daryl's breathing is getting heavier, and it sounds like he's struggling to keep himself quiet. Rick can understand his nervousness, although he can't hear people in the background anymore. He can barely even hear the horses. "Guess it's a good thing I'll be home in a few days then, huh?"

 

"I'm going with yes." Pitching his voice even lower, Rick purposefully adds a hint of a growl just to hear the way Daryl's uneven breath punches out of him. It's followed by a quiet, stifled groan, and Rick knows he's keeping it in the back of his throat to make sure he's not overheard. It's one of the sexiest sounds he's ever heard the trainer make, and he shudders and grips his knee tightly to keep himself from giving Abraham and Carol a show if they happened to walk back into the room right now.

 

"Yer fuckin' evil," Daryl growls as soon as he's got himself under control again. "G'damnit, Grimes, all I got 'tween me an' people's a fuckin' stack'a hay right now. Quit bein' a fuckin' _tease_."

 

"I'll be whatever you want me to be once I see those gorgeous eyes again," Rick chuckles. He keeps his voice purposefully low and rough. "Until then, I guess I gotta behave until I'm alone and I can think about you."

 

He's taking a risk and he knows it, but it pays off beautifully when Daryl groans in his ear again. That's a sound that Rick already knows he'll never get tired of, and it makes him all the more eager to have Daryl in his arms again so he can see what other noises he can coax out of the trainer.

 

"I gotta go," Daryl sighs after a moment where they let each other calm down and breathe. "Th' gang wants ta celebrate. Guess that means drinkin' 'til they can't see straight. Can understand it, though. Was a huge win f'r her."

 

"It was one of her best so far," Rick agrees. He hums quietly, thinking of the way Streak had run like a hellhound hunting a damned soul. She'd  emanated that same kind of focused rage - enough to give Rick chills even now. "She run like that for a reason?"

 

"Yeah, she did." Chuckling, Daryl makes Rick wait a minute to build the suspense before continuing with, "You weren't here."

 

"You sayin' she ran like that because I wasn't there to watch her?"

 

"I'm sayin' yer filly's got herself a temper, an' she don' like changes in her routine. Ya ain't here, so's she's bein' a pissy shit. She took it ta th' track with her."

 

"She looked happy enough nuzzlin' you durin' the interview," Rick points out. Daryl snorts.

 

"Guess she got all her aggression out in th' race. Good thing, or she'd'a prob'lly tried ta take a chunk'a me with her afterwards."

 

"I'll just have to come along next time." Leaning sideways, Rick rests his head in the closest pillow with a tired sigh. "Sorry I couldn't be there this time, darlin'. Tell her too, please."

 

"Ya know I will. Get some rest, Rick. We'll be home in a few days."

 

"Have a drink or two for me, will you?"

 

Daryl huffs warmly at him. It reminds Rick of one of the horses sighing. "I was plannin' on it. G’night, cowboy."

 

"G’night, my wild sky. Can't wait to see those baby blues again."

 

"Sap," Daryl tells him affectionately. Rick doesn't bother trying to deny it - they both know it's true.

 

"I love you so much it hurts to breathe sometimes," Rick says by way of farewell.

 

"Wanna run through life with ya by my side, wild an' free as we were always meant ta be," Daryl replies quietly and with so much feeling it leaves Rick breathless. "Sleep good, Rick."

 

Rick swallows hard and finds his voice enough to murmur, "You too, sweetheart."

 

The line goes dead, but Rick doesn't take his phone away from his face immediately. He closes his eyes and listens to the dial tone, already missing Daryl's soft, rough voice in his ear. The group will leave the Delta Downs track tomorrow morning, which means he's that much closer to having Daryl by his side again. It still feels like it's too far away, but Rick knows he's just being dramatic and impatient.

 

Buck whines softly and noses at his free hand; licking across his knuckles to get his attention and looking at him with dark, sad eyes. He misses Daryl too, probably just as much as Rick does. They must make a pretty pathetic pair, and that in itself makes Rick chuckle as he's reaching for his crutches.

 

"C'mon, boy. Let's go enjoy what little light we've got left today, huh?"

 

The heeler leads the way, loping to the front door and waiting eagerly for Rick to come at a much slower pace. He sits, tail thumping against the floor, while Rick puts on his coat one arm at a time, trying to balance himself with one crutch and his good foot. He succeeds in not falling flat on his face, grinning triumphantly and zipping his jacket closed.

 

"Mind if we tag along?" Carol asks as she and Abraham come through the game room to join them. Rick nods and gets the door open before they can try to help, making room for Buck to nose the screen door open and slip out onto the porch. He doesn't wait for them to follow, just leaps off the porch and runs across the driveway toward the barn. He's barking happily, and Lays answers with a loud whinny that echoes in Rick's ears like a plea and an accusation all at once.

 

"I'm gonna turn her out for a bit so she can stretch her legs," he says as he maneuvers himself down the steps. Carol looks like she wants to help him, but Rick waves her off kindly before she can try. Abraham waits until he's out of the way before thumping off the porch after him; standing with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and looking toward North paddock thoughtfully.

 

"Think I'm gonna check Business' feet," the farrier muses. "Heard her one shoe clankin' odd when Beth took her out. Wanna make sure that ain't gonna be an issue."

 

"Thank you." Nodding at them both, Rick opens his mouth to ask Carol what she's planning on doing. Before he can, Lays whinnies even louder, and he chuckles at her impatience. "I'm gonna go get her before she breaks another leg trying to bust through her stall door."

 

"Do you need help? I can walk her out," Carol offers. Rick shakes his head; reaches out squeezes her shoulder gently.

 

"She'll follow me without a lead. Thank you, though."

 

"Holler if you need help," his secretary insists. "The last thing we need is either of you breaking another leg - one from impatience, and the other from pride."

 

"I'll let you know if I need help," Rick promises. Buck is already in the barn waiting impatiently, so he hobbles after the heeler as quickly as he's able to. He's gotten used to balancing himself on the uneven stones, so it's become a lot easier for him to make his usual rounds, even on crutches.

 

Lays sees him coming and quiets down, playing docile and innocent despite the fact they all know her better than that. She watches him with doe-soft eyes, her ears forward and her muzzle pressed to the bars. As soon as he's close enough, she whuffles at him sweetly. Rick echoes the greeting with one of his own - still not as adept as Daryl, but better than he was. It seems to be enough for Lays, because the mare stops fidgeting and waits for him to let her out.

 

"Hey there, Amble," he croons once there's nothing but air and the smell of hay and horse between them. He checks her cast reflexively, wanting to be sure she hasn't damaged it, and he's glad to see she hasn't. Hershel is damn good at his job, and Rick is eternally grateful for his skill and wisdom. Lays broke her leg in a good spot for it to heal well, so long as she's given the time to do so. Everyone has been making sure she doesn't overexert herself, much to the mare's chagrin.

 

Buck licks Lays' velvet-soft nose when she dips her head to greet the heeler, and Rick is content to wait his turn patiently until he feels her muzzle press against his shoulder. Lays blows a warm breath across his jacket, the displaced air tickling the side of his neck and teasing him with both heat and cold until he shivers. It makes him laugh, and he turns to press a kiss against the dark chestnut's face. "I'm glad you forgive me, sweet thing," he murmurs against her warm, dusty fur. "Dunno if I could bear havin' you hate me for bein' an idiot."

 

Lays sneezes on him and lips his sleeve, her dark eyes gentle and full of so many things Rick can't even begin to understand. He's tried, and he can recognize a few of the sparkles twinkling in those large, chocolate eyes, but he has yet to delve as deeply as Daryl seems to do so naturally. Rick wants so desperately to _know_ his horses the way the trainer does, and he knows he has more of an understanding than he did half a year ago, but there's still so much he wants to learn.

 

"C'mon." Turning, he leads the way with his crutches and smiles when he hears the thud of Lays' hooves and the quieter scrape of Buck's claws as they follow him. The mare already knows she can't go to her normal pasture, so when Rick turns right and heads for the empty pasture beside the barn, she ambles after him lazily; her head bobbing and her nose brushing against his shoulder and nape every few steps. Neither she or Buck try to outpace him, and Rick has to smile all over again at the thought of his animals controlling their eagerness so as not to force him to move faster. They recognize that he's healing as well, and it makes his heart swell with happiness as he transitions from the smooth, cold concrete of the forebay to the tricky, uneven stretch of gravel between the barn and the grass. He catches sight of Abraham setting up his work area behind the barn, and the farrier grins and winks at him when he sees the small precession.

 

"Quite the cripple crew y'all make," he teases, his voice raised enough to be heard and lacking any sort of mocking tone. "Should'a warned me the circus was in town. I'd'a brought popcorn."

 

"Fuck you, Ford," Rick snorts. He can't keep the grin off his face, and he's glad - not for the first time - that his group rotates who goes to the races, rather than everyone going. It ensures that he's never alone, just in case he were to try and push himself too hard. It also means he's got help taking care of everyone, and for that, Rick is more than a little relieved. These last several days, Abraham's particular brand of humor has been especially welcome.

 

"I'm not sure I'm your particular glass of tea," Abraham laughs. Rick laughs too, because they both know it's true. The farrier turns back to his task, and Rick leans a crutch against the fence in order to unlatch the gate and push it to swing inward. He stops to look at the pasture while Buck runs in and searches for the perfect spot to roll around. Lays seems content to wait with him for the moment, her leg slightly lifted to take some of the pressure off of the healing bone.

 

All things considered, Rick came out of their ordeal a lot worse off. His break was worse, and the knock to his head still has him battling the post-concussion fatigue and dizziness. It's gotten better over the last few days, but he still needs to take several breaks throughout the day - he's just too stubborn to do it willingly. Even now, he can feel the world trying to tilt in a disorienting way

, and although he knows it's not real, he still fights the instinctive flare of panic when his vision blurs around the edges.

 

Lays wickers at him, and Rick feels the gentle nudge of her muzzle below his shoulder blade. He lets the mare usher him across the coarse, dying grass to his favorite tree; huffing out a laugh at her when she let's him brace himself between her and the trunk to lower himself to the ground. It's like she knows exactly what he needs, without him needing to say a single thing.

 

Once he's got his legs stretched out in front of him and his back against the tree, Rick reaches up to press his hand against Lays' shoulder. She checks his cast, hovering just an inch above the dark plaster and breathing on it before deciding that Rick can survive sitting and watching. With that decision reached, she starts to drift away to graze while Rick tilts his head back to look at the sky through the barren, skeletal branches above them.

 

The picture it makes is one he finds intriguing - the combination of life and death that chills his cheeks and seeps through his pants to cool his temperature enough that he's no longer bothered by it. Rick has always loved the changing of the seasons. It's life in its most pure, raw form; something that can never be altered by outside forces or influenced by the will of Man. He watches the geese fly through the criss-crossing branches and finds the poetic beauty in it all.

 

When it comes down to it, life will always continue on. The trees and plants will die, the snow will come, and the cycle will continue. When it's time for the season to change again, the snow will melt away and new life will overtake the dead. It makes Rick wonder if people are the same way. What about horses? Dogs, cats, birds? Are they all brought into the same cycle as nature, where they'll die and be reborn again once the time comes for something new?

 

Rick has never fully believed in God - not the way Christians have for centuries. He's always been left with too many questions he could never find answers to; too many discrepancies and prejudices from people who claimed to love a being that swore He loved all His children. Many through the years have claimed differently, and Rick was happy to wipe his hands of it and devote himself to the lives of everything and everyone around him. He relied on what he _could_ see, and made his own religion out of keeping peace and order when he still had his badge and his gun.

 

After he lost that, and Shane and Lori, he drifted until he found a new meaning of life with his horses. They gave him a purpose and helped him find peace not even the law could manage, and he sank into them with the same reverence and adoration a Christian might find when praying to God. For Rick, his herd became his salvation - they became his spring after his years of a bitter, self-fueled winter.

 

Daryl has that same reverence that Rick has found, and yet his is still so much _more_. To the trainer, the horses might as well be gods in their own right, and he treats them as such. He teases them and picks on them when they're acting out, but even that is a kind of devotion in its own way. He gives them a respect and honor most humans can't even give each other, and he's drawn Rick even deeper into that world that he inhabits as easily as breathing. He lives off the land and gives it all the respect it's due, because Daryl recognizes that without the seasons - without the deer and the plants and the predators that maintain the order through their own wild law - there would be _nothing_.

 

Because of Daryl, Rick sees in the world in an entirely new way. He drinks it in like sacramental wine and whispers his devotion to it in the darkness of the night. He prays to the early-morning light that chases away the shadows that hang like sins, leaving Rick feeling refreshed more each new day than the last. It's unlike anything he ever knew before, and with it comes a peace he'd never known a man could experience after the destruction of the life he'd known for so long. And yet here he is, clucking his tongue for Lays and nickering quietly to the mare when she lifts her head to look at him. He sees the power in every line of her body; the twitch and ripple of her muscles as she moves with a grace befitting one of her kind. She is at once elegant and strong, and she finds a balance between the two that is as awe-inspiring as it is dangerous. Lays could kill a man as easily as breathing if he were to warrant such a thing - Streak has already taken pieces from bad men multiple times, and reveled in their fear and anger as they fled from a might they were arrogant enough to believe they wrongly assumed they could control.

 

Lays looks at him with eyes that are more than just the eyes of a beast of burden. There is a fierce intelligence there - something calculating and gentle that makes Rick reach toward her with his fingers splayed out. He doesn't demand her obedience; he simply waits for her to choose on her own. She watches him with eyes that hold worlds in their depths Rick could never imagine, chewing slowly while her ears swivel forward and her head lifts slightly.

 

After a moment, she stretches her neck out and presses her muzzle into the cup of his palm. Rick has pet her more times than he can even begin to count, but there's something inherently different about this time. There's something new in the way he curls his fingers to gently scratch her nose. His skin buzzes in a way he's rarely ever experienced before as he pets against the direction of the short hairs up the long, broad span of her face. He follows the whorl that grows out in the center of her forehead, stroking the dark liver colored fur and feeling how soft it is against his hypersensitive fingertips.

 

"There's somethin' about you that blows my mind constantly, Lays," he whispers with a smile. She wickers at him and uses his palm to scratch an itch, rubbing dirt and dust onto his skin and mixing her scent with his. Once she's seemingly satisfied, she sniffs his palm with flaring nostrils and licks the base of his hand. Laughing, Rick leans close enough to rest his forehead against the softest part of her velvety nose and closes his eyes. He cups either side of her mouth and feels the way her chin trembles; the tug of her mouthing at his curls before she blows out a hot snort that sprays his ears and makes him laugh louder.

 

"You think so, huh?" he chuckles. The mare lips at his bangs again in answer and turns back to grazing. She stays closer this time, her long tail periodically brushing against his pants when she flicks it back and forth.

 

With her in front of him and Buck stretched out alongside him, the heeler's head resting on his thigh, Rick lets the day pass by. He doesn't worry about time, or bills, or anything that is so wholly unimportant when he's got the world so wide open and waiting for him. Even if he can't run headfirst into whatever might be waiting, he can still watch as tendrils of pink and purple and orange start to crawl across the blue. Day is slowly being overtaken by night, heralding a whole new kind of world once the sun has set and the moon is a shining sliver of majesty amongst the endless sprawl of stars.

 

"Rick?" Carol calls quietly from where she's waiting by the gate. He looks at her, barely able to see her face as the shadows lengthen all around them. He squints as if that will make a difference, and then finally surrenders to what he knows is inevitable.

 

"I'll be right there," the rancher sighs. Grabbing his crutches, he hisses in surprise at the shock of the cold aluminum against his palms. Lays whuffles at him and stands still while Rick uses her and the tree to pull himself to his feet the same way he'd relied on their stability to sit down. With a hand braced against her shoulder, feeling the muscles jump and twitch beneath his fingers, he looks at the mare and waits for her to look back.

 

"Thank you for sharing this with me," he murmurs. Rick has no way of knowing if she knows what he's saying; he doesn't even know what possesses him to say it in the first place. It feels right though, like a fraction of his universe settles into something relieved and relaxed once the words pass his lips with the reverence befitting a prayer.

 

Carol opens the gate for them as soon as they're close enough. Buck ducks through first, trotting toward the house without waiting for them to catch up. Rick snorts at his heeler's determination to find his dinner without delay, and he lets him go so he can get Lays back into her stall and give the mare her own dinner, along with all the others. Abraham is bringing Slicker and Shadow in, both of the colts dancing eagerly behind him as they look forward to their supper.

 

"Guess it's that time, huh." Motioning for Carol to lead the way, Rick follows his secretary with Lays just behind him. The mare seems content to make her way back to the barn slowly - she's probably not very eager to be penned in again. Rick hates that he has to do it, but until her leg is healed and she's completely recovered, this is the way it has to be. The mare must recognize that on some level, because she walks into her stall without prompting; sighing at them happily when Carol gives her a scoop of feed before the woman shuts the door gently.

 

"You'll get out again tomorrow," his secretary chuckles. Lays huffs at her before turning to her feed, effectively ending that conversation and making Rick struggle to stifle his amused chuckles as he follows Carol around so she can feed everyone else. Abraham has already given them all their hay and fresh water, and the horses snort eagerly when they're given the rest of their meals. Rick stands in the middle of the aisle and listens to his herd as they eat. The scent of hay, horses, and sweet feed fills his nose, and he breathes it deep into his lungs. The only thing missing is the bitter scent of tobacco, but Daryl will be home soon enough. Rick isn't even craving the burn of cigarette smoke or the feel of the nicotine kicking in. He just misses being side by side with Daryl; their shoulders touching and their thighs pressed together as they speak through the sharing of the cigarette and warm, fleeting glances.

 

"I think it's time for our supper, too," Carol says with a smile as they make their way back to the house. Buck chuffs at her, his tail thumping against the concrete, and she shakes her head fondly at his impatience. "And yours too, I know." The heeler scrambles to make it out of the entrance to the barn before they do, racing across the driveway and bounding up onto the porch. He noses the screen door open and sits to wait for them to catch up. Rick can see him squirming in the yellow light spilling out of the windows on either side of the door. He still acts so much like a puppy, even at five years old. It's one of Rick's favorite things about the heeler, and he doesn't know if the smile is ever going to leave his face as he watches Buck get more and more animated the closer they come.

 

"You act like we never feed you," he chides playfully as they make their way inside. The warmth hits him like a shock, and Rick realizes for the first time in several hours just how long he spent sitting on the cold ground lost in his thoughts and the comforting companionship of his horse and his dog. He also realizes just how not hungry he is, but Carol is looking at him expectantly, and Rick can't say no to her hopeful expression. The more he moves around, the more the growing ache of his healing leg tells him that it's time for another round of pain medicine. He doesn't have any more of the heavy-duty prescriptions - mostly over-the-counter brands to help manage his pain. It's better than nothing, but taking it on an empty stomach is never a good idea, so he sits at the table without a fuss and eats what's put in front of him.

 

They laugh and tease each other, and Carol slaps Abraham's arm in mock disgruntlement when he tries to feed her. She's blushing faintly, and her blue eyes are twinkling with a life they had lacked for so long when Rick first knew her. It makes him wonder if Sophia and Abraham are her salvation as much as her faith. He knows that she believes in God, but she never forces her religion onto him - she barely even talks about it at all. The life that shines from her since leaving her ex-husband behind and finding a new path says more than she probably realizes about both subjects, and seeing her so happy is still worth everything in Rick's opinion.

 

He doesn't realize he's smiling at his plate until Abraham calls him out on it. "Thinkin' of a pair of pretty eyes?" the farrier teases. Rick laughs and nods, looking at the man across the table from him and seeing a light in his eyes that has everything to do with the woman sitting beside him. They're so perfect together, complimenting each other in a way that makes them stronger together than they ever were alone. Looking at them, Rick ponders his earlier thoughts of people dying and being reborn like the seasons changing, and the possibility of souls that knew each other in different lives finding one another again in the next.

 

Are he and Daryl like that as well? Did they know each other in a past life, and their souls recognized something in each other that brought them together in this one? The thought warms Rick even more than being out of the cold. To have known Daryl before, even in a life he can no longer remember - and even if they never got as close as they are now - makes his heart beat quicker and his palms sweat. To be that bonded to someone that they would follow each other through death and come out into an entirely new life, where they could live and find each other and fall in love all over again...

 

It's the most incredible thing Rick could ever imagine.

 

By the time they're done with dinner, the pain meds are starting to take effect, and the day is catching up with him. Rick almost falls asleep in his last cup of coffee, and even though it's not actually that late, he's more than ready for bed.

 

"Sleep, Rick. You look exhausted." Carol cups his cheeks and kisses his forehead, the gesture as affectionate and motherly as it always manages to be. They might be relatively close in age, but Rick feels so much younger when he's falling asleep and almost leaning on his secretary. She braces him with a warm laugh, petting his curls back from his face and helping him out if his chair when Rick struggles to get his feet under him.

 

"Sleep well, cowboy," Abraham says, bumping his shoulder gently against Rick's before taking their plates to the kitchen.

 

"You too, Abe." Limping his way slowly toward the stairs, he waves off Carol's attempts to help with a tired smile. "Think you can keep Buck with y'all for a while? I doubt he's ready for bed. He'd probably drive me nuts pacin'."

 

"We've got him," Carol assures, and Rick pulls her into as tight a hug he can manage with only one arm.

 

"Thank y'all, for everything," he whispers against her hair. She hugs back just as tightly before nudging him on his way.

 

"It's what family does, Rick. We take care of each other, through good and bad."

 

"Sometimes those curls do make me think twice," Abraham adds with a cheeky grin. "Can't figure out if you've been in a hurricane, or if you just had some _damn_ wild sex."

 

"I love you too, Ford," Rick huffs. He gets himself up the stairs slowly, but slow is better than needing someone to help him. Rick mastered the art of tucking both crutches under one arm and using the banister for support with his free hand. It's not the most graceful of climbs, but it gets him to the second floor without anyone hovering and trying to help him when he's perfectly capable of doing it himself. He's grateful to all of them for their care and support, but sometimes his pride kicks in, and he needs to prove to himself and others that he can still take care of himself when it all comes down to it.

 

The only one who doesn't push is Daryl. The trainer sees Rick's determination, and recognizes the will of someone used to living under their own power. He waits for Rick to ask, unless he knows that stubbornness will get in the way of humility. He's the only one who knows Rick as well as he knows himself, if not _better_ , and Rick loves him more each day than he ever believed he could.

 

His bed is cold from being unoccupied all day, but it's a comforting coolness. Rick changes slowly into his pyjamas and slides under the covers; wrapping himself in his thickest quilt and letting his body heat warm his sheets. He sinks into the mattress with a relieved sigh, props his casted foot up on the pillows he keeps there for it, and closes his eyes.

 

Immediately, a picture of Daryl forms in his mind. He sees those gentle, shining blue eyes above a crooked, shy smile; smells tobacco and the musk that reminds him of woods and horses. He can almost feel those hands on him, running through his curls and cupping the back of his neck. He wants more than anything in that moment to have Daryl's lips against his. He wants their bodies pressed together and their legs tangled beneath the blankets on his bed. He wants it to be _their_ bed, and for Daryl to lay back against his sheets with his hair spilled across the dark pillowcases while he watches Rick with hooded eyes that have darkened from desire.

 

Rick wants to kiss every inch of Daryl's bared skin. He wants to lick and nip at the dark ink of his beautiful tattoo, and listen to him trying to stifle his sounds of pleasure. _God_ , but Rick wants to hear him loud and unrestrained, not caring if anyone is in the house as Rick makes him forget everything but the pleasure and the joy of them coming together in a way that will burn like the most passionate fires and spark along their veins like lightning. He wants the hot, wet gasp of Daryl's frantic breath against his bare shoulder, and the blunt pain of teeth digging into his skin as the trainer marks Rick in all the ways he's desperate to mark the younger man. He wants them to wear the marks with pride, and sooth the brief hurts with kisses and the broad swipes of their tongues the way wolves would.

 

Running a hand down his chest, Rick slips it beneath the loose waistband of his sleeping pants and cages his groan behind his teeth as he palms his hot, twitching cock. He imagines Daryl's rough hand instead, the trainer's callouses mostly the same as Rick's; his touch lighter from hesitation and curiosity as he learns what drives the rancher wild. Baring his teeth toward the ceiling, Rick arches into his own touch, rolling his palm across the weeping head of his erection and smearing the wetness down the length of it. The drag is slightly too dry, but it still feels so good that he can't bring himself to care.

 

"Fuck," he hisses, the curse fighting it's way to freedom and getting lost in the cool air of his bedroom. Stroking himself faster, he keeps the image of Daryl clear in his mind - cheeks painted red from his flush, his mouth open and wet; his eyes dark and sparking with need and the wild passion so beautifully contained in his powerful body. He'll be a vision, even more so than the painting in Rick's mind. He'll be everything Rick has ever wanted, and more than he ever knew he needed. Rick imagines the weight of him - the feel of the trainer's thighs bracketing his hips and the drag of their cocks as they thrust against each other. He tightens his grip and rocks into the tunnel of his fist, thinking of his cock slipping further back and nestling against Daryl's ass - the tip catching against the furl of his entrance and the sounds Daryl will make because of it. Rick swears he can already feel the heat of sliding into the other man, and he grunts low in his throat. Just the thought of Daryl's face fractured open from pleasure, with no need to hide or fight himself, makes Rick's orgasm as forceful as being hit by a bolt of lightning.

 

Clapping a hand over his mouth, he whines out a groan through gritted teeth and cups his palm over the tip of his pulsing cock to try and catch as much of his release as he can. The wetness streaks across his palm and drips from his fingers, and Rick can't help but think of Daryl - his broad chest heaving and his eyes wild as he marks Rick with pearly drops of milky white.

 

"God, I love you," he mutters against his sweaty hand as the aftershocks roll through him. His muscles twitch sporadically, his hips still bucking as he rides out the last of his orgasm. Once he's reasonably sure he can keep from making a bigger mess, he throws back the blankets and gasps at the cool air hitting his sweaty, overheated skin. For a moment, he closes his eyes and just breathes, letting the images of Daryl he's conjured up fade away. Rick holds onto that small, sweet smile; guarding it zealously until he has no choice but to open his eyes to reach for the towel on the nightstand beside his bed. He cleans his hand and contemplates getting up and changing. In the end, he decides that will take more effort than he cares to expend, and he was already planning on taking a shower in the morning anyway. He ends up dropping the dirtied towel on the floor and reaches for his phone instead.

 

 _I love you so much it hurts to breathe sometimes. You know that?_ He sends the text and sets his phone on his chest, closing his eyes and waiting for the feel of it vibrating against his breastbone. When it does, he smiles and squints so the glare doesn't blind him while he reads Daryl's reply.

 

_Think I might be startin to. You're the sappiest fucker I ever met. Ya know THAT?_

 

With a fond shake of his head, Rick types out his retort with quick fingers.

 

_You love me sappy, sweetheart. And I love you sassy. Guess it all works out._

 

Daryl's response comes less than a minute later.

 

_I also love horses and beer. That work out too? Your sap is ruinin my buzz._

 

Rick laughs quietly and rolls his eyes.

 

_I'm so sorry that my affection kills your fun. Guess I'll just go to bed and let you young'uns enjoy getting drunk._

 

 _Bedtime already? Damn, you are an old man._ Daryl's sass is tinged with sweetness, and Rick knows that somewhere in a bar near the Delta Downs racetrack, the trainer is sitting with the rest of the group and trying not to smile at his phone.

 

_I love you, my wild sky. Have fun._

 

There's a longer pause before he gets Daryl's reply; he's starting to fall asleep when his phone finally buzzes and he picks it up from where it's come to rest on his stomach.

 

_Sleep well, agigau._

 

Rick doesn't ask, but he does type the word into Google to figure it out on his own. When he sees the translation, he smiles so wide his face hurts, and he feels the wet prickle of tears at the corners of his eyes. He falls asleep not much later, and Daryl's love follows him into his dreams.

 

It ends up being one of the most restful nights Rick can remember having in a long time.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S MONDAY.
> 
> Also, just in case you didn't notice, this fic now has an end chapter in sight! The epilogue was finished about five days ago, which brings this monster to 21 chapters, and I hope y'all continue to enjoy every single one of them. I know we're not done yet, but seriously guys - thank y'all for every single comment and kudos you've given. I've been more than blown away by the response to this fic. I wasn't expecting the reaction it would get, even in my wildest dreams. So thank you, each and every one of you. You're all precious, wonderful pearls and I love you all. <3
> 
> A special thanks to katytheinspiredworkaholic, who is my beta through all of this, and my very dear friend. I love you, mine KitKat. You are a treasure all your own. <3 <3 <3 <3
> 
> ENJOY GUYS.

The vibration of the cast saw is a strange sensation against his hypersensitive skin, but Rick is more than willing to endure it with a broad smile as he watches the dark cast being cut away. After a little over six weeks, the muscles have atrophied slightly, but they're still strong - still able to bear weight while he builds strength in the limb again. Rick is prepared for physical therapy, even though the last time was so long ago - and under entirely different circumstances. In this case, rebuilding leg muscles will be a hell of a lot easier than relearning basic motor skills after three months in a coma.

 

"I've gotta say, Mr. Grimes, this is one of the best heals I've ever seen." The doctor is a young man with a kind smile and gentle eyes. There's a tiredness that hangs around him, something that goes deeper than the surface to settle in the man's weary bones, but it's not powerful enough yet to chase away the spark of life that twinkles in his bright green eyes.

 

Rick grins and looks at the x-rays Doctor Marsh has up on the board. He can see the break easily in the first one - a clean split that barely shifted thanks to Daryl's quick thinking and his knowledge of quick-treating wounds. The one right beside it, lit by the bright glow of the backlight, shows a bone that's all but completely healed. There's hardly a distinction between the undamaged bone and where the break was, and Rick's smile hitches his lips a little higher as he swings the freed leg.

 

"Feels better than it has in a while," he admits. "Must just be a good healer."

 

That's not entirely true, but he doesn't feel the need to mention the cares of the man sitting in the waiting room - the herbal teas and Poultices Daryl made so painstakingly for Rick to help him heal. It amazed him, learning how easy it was to tend to ailments with something that was so natural it grew right out of the soil. "So, I can start building it back up now?"

 

"Slowly," the doctor nods. He fits the compression wrap in place and checks to make sure it's not too tight. "You healed really well, but the bone still needs a little more time to get back to what it was. So long as you don't go and run a marathon, there shouldn't be an issue. I'd still err on the side of caution, though."

 

"What about horseback riding?" Easing himself off of the crinkling paper stretched over the examination table, Rick gingerly puts weight on his foot for the first time in almost two months. He grins when there's only a faint residual ache and limps from one side of the room to the other under Doctor Marsh's vigilant watch. The more he moves, the easier it gets, and Rick can _feel_ his body settling back into its usual stride.

 

"Just as long as it's riding, and not _racing_." Eyes crinkling up at the corners, the doctor reaches out to shake his hand. "Just give yourself time to rest, and don't push it too much. Think you can do that?"

 

"I think I can manage." Shaking the man's hand firmly, Rick laughs. "Thank you, Doctor Marsh. You're a remarkable man."

 

"I'm just a doctor. And please, call me Caleb. I'm a big fan of that filly of yours. It's nice to have a local legend. I saw the Los Alamitos race, and that was _incredible_." Some of the tiredness eases out of Caleb's eyes, a lightness settling in him that Rick recognizes easily for what it is. He can spot a fellow horse-lover as easily as breathing now, and it's a love he's willing to share in.

 

"Nothin' sayin' you can't come out and see her every now and then if you wanted, Caleb. She's a lot nicer now that she's not trying to rip chunks out of people; at least when I'm there." He grins and tilts his head forward, thinking of what he remembers watching of the Los Alamitos on the television. It had killed him, having to miss another race because of his cast, and Streak's apparent anger over him not being there had led her to her fifth victory. Her record is still unbroken, and her drive to win brings more attention than Rick had ever believed possible.

 

Caleb's laugh is loud and warm, and hearty in a way that almost seems to chase the shadows from the corners of the room. It's a surprising noise coming from a man that's a few inches shorter than Rick, but it fits him in a way that brings another smile to the rancher's lips. They shake hands one last time, and then Rick strides out to the waiting room to find Daryl. He'd offered to let the trainer come back with him, but Daryl had shaken his head and settled himself in one of the plush, comfortable chairs. He's still there when Rick walks out of the back area, a magazine lying face down over one knee and his pale eyes zeroing in on Rick with unwavering focus. The smile that blooms is larger and more beautiful than any Southern magnolia blossom, and twice as sweet.

 

"Yer a free man," he chuckles as he sets the magazine aside and rolls smoothly to his feet. Rick watches him come closer, the man's gait somewhere between a lope and a prowl, and he bites the inside of his lip when he sees more from Daryl's body language than the people around them ever will. No longer a wary, beaten mutt, Daryl approaches with a confidence that is far more appealing than any hesitant shuffle. He comes right up into Rick's space with no fear of retaliation, his pale eyes going hooded and his crooked smirk speaking volumes. "Doc clear ya for all kinds'a extrac'rriculars?"

 

"So long as I ain't runnin' a marathon or straddlin' a racer, I should be just fine," Rick quips back. "Gotta take it easy for a bit, just to make sure, but if I wanna _ride_ , sweetheart, then ain't nothin' stoppin' me."

 

They're getting a few strange looks - they are in the South, even if most of the population is a lot more accepting these days - but Rick doesn't care. It's hard to care about anything outside of _them_ when he sees Daryl's eyes go dark and shining with a hunger the two of them have been dancing around for too long. They're on the edge of the cliff, miles above anything even resembling safety, but they know by now that neither one of them will let the other crash into the unforgiving ground. They'll catch each other long before the possibility can become reality, letting the thermals lift them until they're soaring high above the jagged rocks with no fear of the wind ever abandoning them.

 

"Think it's time for th' ride I mentioned few weeks back, then," the trainer murmurs. The air between them is charged and heated, the threads holding them back frayed and ready to snap. Before they make a scene, Rick nods and leads the way out to the truck; holds his hand up for the keys before Daryl even gets the chance to catch him off guard and toss them. They smile at one another, and Rick sighs happily as he slides behind the wheel and enjoys the feel of the cool leather beneath his palms. He flexes his fingers around it, humming low in his throat, and looks over when he hears an amused huff.

 

"Ya gonna drive it or pet it?" Daryl teases. He makes himself at home in the passenger's seat, the window already rolled down despite the cold and a cigarette lit and tucked between his lips. Rick watches from the corner of his eye as the trainer tilts his head back, noticing for the first time just how long Daryl's hair is getting. It makes his fingers twitch against the steering wheel, and he swallows thickly before grinning.

 

"There are a lot of things I want to pet more than this wheel, darlin'," he rumbles. He sees Daryl twitch; revels in the stifled hitch of the man's breath and focuses on getting them home safely before his simmering desire leads him to crashing the truck. "You care if I take a shower before we go?"

 

"Nah. Gonna tack up th' horses an' get 'em ready while ya do. Jus' don' take a fuckin' age or imma leave without ya." Daryl exhales a cloud of smoke that hangs around his head before the wind whipping in from the open window catches it and drags it back outside. Rick reaches over and takes the cigarette easily, curling his lips around the filter and letting it hang from the corner of his mouth; protecting it between his fingers as he inhales deeply before handing it back. He lets the smoke out on a sigh, cracking his window to let the air take it back, and glances at Daryl again.

 

"Who we takin'?"

 

"Badger an' Streak, I reckon. Do 'em both good ta get out an' away from th' farm for a bit. C'n take Lays next time." Daryl chews the cigarette filter unconsciously, his eyes distant and tracking back and forth as he maps out the directions in his mind. "Ya c'n ride Badger, I fig're. He'll gait nicer for ya than Streak will."

 

Rick's quiet huff of laughter clears those pale eyes, bringing them to him with a light curiosity that makes Daryl tilt his head as he waits for the rancher to elaborate. "I'm probably the only man who would consider taking his prized racehorse out into the mountains on a camping trip."

 

"She's a horse, firs' an' foremost," Daryl says quietly. "She's gotta be allowed ta have fun outside'a runnin' them tracks 'til th' day she retires. Think people forget that, sometimes." He looks out the front windshield, his arm and the cigarette hanging out the open window. His forehead is creased, a small frown tugging at his thin lips, and Rick waits patiently for him to gather his thoughts. Daryl drags his teeth over his bottom lip and snorts before looking over at Rick again. "Ain't a'ways about th' money. Ain't a'ways 'bout bein' th' best. Th' horses run 'cause it's what they're meant ta do. S'what they _love_. So why can't they do it off th' track too? Why ain't they allowed ta be _horses_?"

 

It's a rhetorical question, but Rick answers anyway. "Because there's a risk of them getting hurt, and no one wants to keep a horse that can't race. If it ain't bringin' in money, it ain't worth it." Clearing his throat, he looks out the window and frowns at the traffic flowing around them without seeing any of it. They'll get off the highway soon and vanish into the backroads, swallowed up by the trees and the peace that nature always brings.

 

"When I was gettin' started in all this," he starts after a moment of silence, "I visited a lot of different stables. Wanted to see what they were like, and how they were run. Most of the owners didn't like potential competition nosing around. Some, like Dale, jumped at the chance to extend a helping hand." Shaking his head, Rick runs his fingers back through his curls, ignoring the pain as he catches them on tangles. "There was this one place that had a mare. She'd been a champion racer, and she came from really good bloodlines. Well, she'd foundered really, really badly. She couldn't even fuckin' _stand_ , she hurt that bad. Her quality of life was _shit_. But they kept her alive, because her foals were highly sought after. They stood her up to be bred, and let her have her foal - which they always put on a nurse mare. Otherwise, they let her live out her life barely movin'. It was one of the most horrific things I've ever seen in my life. But they kept her alive, they let her _suffer_ , because her bloodlines were too good to put her to sleep."

 

"Money blinds people," Daryl says quietly. His eyes are closed, his expression tight with pain that isn't even his own; he shakes head in disgust. "Ya wan'ed Streak trained 'cause she loves t' run. Th' money didn' motivate ya. _She_ did. An' even if she don' win th' Triple, ya ain't gonna give a damn, are ya?"

 

"I know she can do it," Rick murmurs. "I _know_ she can. But if she doesn't want to, I'm not gonna force her. If somethin' happens, if she gets hurt and it can't be fixed, I'll keep her comfortable. I'll retire her and give her the life she deserves. But if her suffering _ever_ outweighed her joy of living, I wouldn't hesitate. I'd let her go in a fuckin' _heartbeat_ , because she's not an object. She's a livin', breathin' creature, and I'm not doin' that to her just to make a few extra dollars."

 

" _That's_ what makes ya differ'nt." Daryl smiles at him with so much gentle love that Rick almost forgets to watch the road. He almost misses his turn off because he's so focused on the beautiful, radiant man in the passenger seat. "S'what makes me differ'nt too, I guess. My trainin' methods ain't exactly widely-practiced. We're a bit fuckin' unorthodox, Rick. Dunno if ya noticed."

 

"Oh, I have." Rick chuckles and relaxes back into his seat, watching the shining steel of civilization dwindle down to wide open fields and barren trees. The roads in the country are constantly covered in leaves, because people don't often wander this far off the beaten path. The asphalt is almost invisible beneath the carpet of brown and the last stubborn hints of red and gold; the leaves displaced in a flurry of movement as the truck roars over them and the air kicks them up into miniature tornadoes that settle slowly once they're gone.

 

"S'kinda nice, in a lot'a ways." Daryl flicks the finished cigarette out the window and rubs his cold fingers against his mouth. His eyes are distant again, flicking back and forth to see things Rick can't. "Ya get yer shower. Pack a duffle of what ya want. I'll tack 'em up an' get 'em set. Jus' meet me when yer ready, an' we'll head out."

 

"Gonna eat before we go?" Rick asks curiously. He's not particularly hungry yet, but he's not sure how long it will take the horses to get to wherever it is Daryl is taking them. He highly doubts there will be a fast food restaurant nearby, either.

 

"Got somethin' for along th' way," Daryl shrugs. "It'll keep up 'til we get there. It should, at least." He eyes Rick when his stomach growls, and the rancher smiles sheepishly. "Ya might wanna grab somethin' 'fore we even go, though. Keep ya from eatin' yer damn saddle."

 

"I'm not that bad." Playing at being affronted, Rick turns them onto the driveway and smiles when he sees Buck waiting for them. He laughs quietly, and Daryl whistles to the heeler. They laugh together when Buck runs ahead of the truck, and their mirth draws Slicker and Shadow. The colts race along the fenceline with them, and Rick soaks up the sounds of their joy as they kick up their hind hooves and run with flagging tails. It's like they know that something is different, and their mood is infectious. By the time Rick parks the truck in front of the house, right next to Daryl's dust-covered motorcycle, all of the horses are up against the gates, whinnying and neighing loudly. It's music to Rick's ears, and he plants his hands on his hips; stands by the tailgate and listens to the herd welcome them home with a smile that might just be brighter than the early January sun.

 

"Shower," Daryl murmurs - a sudden line of heat against his side when the trainer presses close to him. His elbow digs into the younger man's ribs, but Daryl shows no discomfort or desire to move away. If anything, he comes just a little bit closer, his lips warm against the skin just beneath Rick's cold ear. "Do what ya gotta do, pack yer shit, an' saddle up, cowboy."

 

"Love it when you talk dirty, sweetheart," Rick rumbles. Daryl shoots him a glare, but there's an attractive shade of pink painting across his cheeks even as he scoffs and moves away.

 

"Save it f'r th' third date, Romeo."

 

"What does this count as?" Rick wonders as he heads toward the house. Daryl starts toward the barn, his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat and his long hair covering his ears to keep them warm. Pale blue eyes flick toward him, glittering with playful desire as a crooked grin pulls Daryl's lips up on one side.

 

"Prob'lly five're six," the trainer teases, and then he's striding quickly across the gravel and slipping into the barn to get the tack ready. It's clearly the end of that conversation, so Rick hurries into the house and up the stairs with Daryl's words replaying in his mind like a song stuck on repeat.

 

Rolling up several changes of clothes, he tucks them messily into his duffle bag and leaves it open on his bed while he strips for his shower. He doesn't waste time daydreaming; barely even waits for it to warm up before he's sliding off the compression wrap and jumping beneath the spray. He scrubs himself quickly, still thinking of the look on Daryl's face and the invitation that had been laced in his low, gruff words. He knows better than to let it go to his head. They've been bantering back and forth for a while now, and nothing's come of it. It's not like Rick needs them to have sex to prove the validity of their relationship - that's already been cemented in stone for a good long while. The thought of it though, of having Daryl beneath him or above him, the two of them rocking together and sharing heat and air and burning want, makes Rick shiver. He gargles water to bring some wetness back to his suddenly dry throat, steps out of the shower, and grabs his towel.

 

There isn't a moment before then that Rick can recall ever drying off so fast. He rubs himself down briskly, whisking away the drops of water and dragging on some worn, warm clothes. They may be in Georgia, but it's January, and from the sound of it, they have a long ride ahead of them to get to wherever it is Daryl wants to take him. Rick is filled with eagerness and anticipation as he grabs his duffel and zips it closed - leaving the door open behind him for Buck and heading for the stairs. His socked feet barely make a sound on the hardwood floors, his damp curls clinging to his nape and sticking in wet tendrils to his forehead. Rick feels like a teenager about to go out on his first date, and he has to stop for a moment and gather himself to breathe. He looks at the bare, tan walls and chews his lips, focusing on inhaling deeply and letting each one out in slow, even breaths.

 

_You're going on a camping trip, Rick. Y'all aren't runnin' away to Vegas. You act like it's gonna be the first time you two have been alone together. Get a hold of yourself, Grimes._

 

Once his heart no longer feels like it's trying to beat out of his chest, Rick descends the stairs and bends down by the front door to cram his feet back into his muddy boots. The compression wrap is something he still needs to get used to, but at least it offers a much better range of movement than the bulky cast did. At least like this, he can still swing himself up into the saddle and ride. If he couldn't, he and Daryl could have easily taken the truck or the motorcycle, but there's something so much more freeing to finding their destination while on the back of a horse, with nothing to disrupt from the beauty of the world around them. There won't be any noxious fumes, or the rumble of an engine to shatter the peace. It'll be just their quiet conversations, or their comfortable silences, and the horses. Rick honestly can't think of anything more relaxing than that.

 

"Dry yer fuckin' hair, Jesus," Daryl hisses when he sees the droplets already freezing at the ends of Rick's curls. Reaching over, the trainer flips up his collar to try and keep Rick's damp neck warmer. He smiles sheepishly when Daryl yanks off the knitted cap he's found somewhere and eases it down over Rick's wet hair. "No use gettin' out'a a cast jus' ta catch fuckin' pneumonia. Th' hell's wrong with ya?"

 

"I'm just eager to see this mysterious place we're going," Rick chuckles. He catches Daryl's hands before he can step back and pulls him into a kiss. The younger man relaxes against him and kisses back, his lips cold but his mouth warm. It's an enticing combination, and Rick groans low in his throat when Daryl's tongue curls wickedly against his own. His hard-won confidence leaves Rick breathless and wanting, but in the driveway is no place for them to let their mingling desires finally overwhelm them.

 

"You'll love it," Daryl breathes when they let the cold air slip between them again. He doesn't go far, his forehead pressed against Rick's and their eyes locked. Their breath mingles, puffing clouds of white that meld and brush against their cheeks. Daryl's pale eyes twinkle, his growing excitement almost childlike in its innocence.

 

"Better head out while we've still got daylight then, darlin'." After one last kiss, Rick turns to look at Badger and Streak. They're waiting patiently, watching the humans with interest. He notices that the gelding has a regular bit, although Streak has a bitless bridle. It's the first time he's seen it, although he's not surprised. Badger handles bits well, but Streak refuses to tolerate them off the track if she can help it. It looks like Daryl has taken that into consideration, at least for this trip, and the filly looks happier than usual because of it.

 

"C'mon," Daryl mumbles. He cups his hands and waits, so Rick takes the offer. He braces a boot in the man's palm carefully, not wanting to hurt him even a little. He pushes off, and Daryl uses his impressive strength to help boost him up until Rick can swing onto the saddle and settle into place. The leather is chilly against his jeans, barely warmed by the sun, but his body heat changes that quickly. By the time he's situated and reaching for the reins, his boots in the stirrup and his healed leg barely aching from the relaxed position, Daryl is up on Streak's back and leaning forward in his saddle with a soft smile and closed eyes.

 

There is no place Daryl looks more comfortable than when he's up on a horse, and although Rick knows that he's about as fond of saddles as Streak is of bits, Daryl is using it to tie the camp rolls and his duffle to. He tosses Rick his bag once he's settled, and the rancher turns to tie it off the back of his own saddle; fastening it and his bedroll in place. Daryl has a few bulkier bags tied to his saddle, which Rick figures must be the tent and his own clothes, as well as whatever snacks he thinks they'll need to tide them over until they find the camp. He sees the bulk of a different, odd shape beneath them when Streak turns away, and wonders if it's Daryl's crossbow. If they're going out that far away from civilization, they might need it for any number of things. He's never seen the younger man actually use it, and just the thought of how he'd look holding the bow makes Rick's abdominal muscles clench from a quick spark of desire.

 

"Ready?" The trainer looks over at him, grinning widely, and Rick's own smile is just as big, if not bigger. In answer, he presses his heels gently against Badger's sides and whistles. The gelding snorts and jerks forward, settling into an easy trot that he never would have been capable of without Daryl's care and herbs. He's not lame anymore, and Rick hasn't seen his arthritis making him stiff in months. The cold doesn't seem to be bothering him either; his coat is thick and sleek and his ears are so fuzzy that Rick can't resist reaching out to pet one. It twitches between his fingers, so soft and warm that he laughs. Badger snorts and ducks his head away, so Rick sits back in the saddle - looks over his shoulder, past Daryl and Streak, when Abraham whistles sharply.

 

"Go on, then, ya assholes- leave without a goodbye!" the farrier hollers.

 

"G'bye, prick!" Daryl hollers back. "See yer ugly mug in a week!"

 

"A week?" Rick's attention snaps to Daryl, who turns to look at him with no hint of remorse in his expression. "We're going for a whole _week_?"

 

"Th' fuck kind'a weekend vacations ya take as a kid?" Snorting, Daryl urges Streak into a brisk walk, the big filly quickly overtaking Badger and slipping into the lead before Daryl pulls her back to walk them side by side. They're lucky their road isn't very busy on most occasions, although with them being so deep in the Georgia wilds, most drivers know to respect a man or a woman riding a horse and give them a wide berth.

 

Rick has to look up at Daryl a little bit, because Badger is a modest sixteen hands, and Streak is pushing eighteen now. She's living up to her sire's legacy in ways Rick had only ever imagined, and it looks like he and Daryl were right - she's going to be just as big as Devil On Earth was, with the same larger-than-life personality as the stallion.

 

"Not very many," he admits as he reaches over to pets Streak's ink-black mane. She arches her neck proudly, and Rick smiles as he scratches an itchy spot. When the filly sighs and angles her head away, he leans back and resettles himself in his saddle. Badger snorts, waiting for his attention, so Rick pats the gelding's well-muscled shoulder and scratches along the edge of the saddle blanket. He feels the horse relaxing under him, and he nudges with his heels to coax Badger into going just a little faster. Streak speeds up as well, refusing to let the gelding get ahead of her, and Daryl snorts in amusement.

 

"Week too long for ya?" he asks with a pointed glance toward Rick. "Can cut it a bit short if ya wanna. Ya _did_ just get out'a a cast. S'just what I'm used ta doin' when I go campin'. Jus' me'n all'a nature, an' nothin' else."

 

"That sounds like heaven to me," Rick admits sincerely. "Just us and them, and the woods? That sounds like just my kind of thing."

 

"Well, maybe not jus' them." Daryl looks up toward the mountains, and Streak looks as well, like she knows something Rick doesn't. "Where we're goin'... I spent a lot'a time there as a kid. Me'n mom, mostly. Sometimes Merle came too, but not of'en. Mom said he a'ways ran from that part'a him. Still wonder why, sometimes."

 

"What part of him?" Leaning forward slightly, Rick looks up at the mountains with interest. The sky clings to them, the clouds shrouding the peaks, and the forest climbs as high up the regal sides as it can before tapering off. Fog hangs thickly over the treetops, clinging to the barren branches and adding an element that Rick can't bring himself to think of as _ominous_. It's just quiet, in a way he rarely sees in the world anymore. There's an ancient kind of undisturbed peace that hangs around them, something he senses even from so far away that feels uninterrupted by the passage of time. It settles in his bones and makes his breathing easier with each deep inhale, until he feels so light he could almost be pulled away by the wind and up into those thick, immobile clouds. His body feels tingly, like warmth is crawling over his skin, and Rick finds himself leaning even farther forward.

 

"Hey," Daryl says loudly, snapping his fingers right next to Rick's ear. It breaks him out of the trance; the sensation fading away and the cold winter breeze filtering back in until Rick is reaching up to adjust his cap.

 

"What?" he asks distractedly. His eyes keep wandering back toward the mountains, but whatever he'd felt before is just a faint resonating thrum deep inside of his chest now.

 

"Stay with me f'r now, Rick," Daryl urges quietly. "Got plenty'a time ta drift later, _agigau_. Need ya here f'r now."

 

The endearing term makes Rick smile, all thought of the alluring winds forgotten as he turns to look at Daryl. The trainer smiles back at him; reaching over to squeeze his shoulder before a mischievous light gleams in his eyes. He lets go, and before Rick can ask what he's doing, Daryl is leaning low in Streak's saddle and whistling quietly against the filly's neck.

 

Streak takes off away from the road like a shot, streaming across the terrain and reminding Rick of a dark, roiling storm cloud. Her hooves beat against the ground and rumble like thunder; her whinny pierces through the air like lightning. Badger whinnies in reply, easing himself into a gallop at a much slower pace. He was a decent racer in his prime, but age and aches have taken that from him. He's still fast enough to keep Streak in his line of sight, but he'll never outdistance the filly even in an endurance run. Daryl knows it, so he doesn't push their luck. He slows Streak to a trot once they're farther away from the road, letting her drift along at a slower pace until Rick and Badger catch up.

 

"Feel better?" Rick raises his eyebrows, and Daryl's grin is sharp and unrepentant.

 

"What, th' old men can't keep up with th' young'uns? Should I be worried 'bout what that could mean?"

 

"Cheeky little shit." Drawing up beside the trainer and Streak, Rick lets Badger have a moment to graze and recover while Daryl does the same for the filly. Leaning over, he waits for the younger man to to move closer and reaches out to tangle his fingers in Daryl's dark, soft hair. Daryl hums low in his throat and shivers when Rick tugs gently, and Rick's smile is all teeth when he presses his lips to Daryl's ear.

 

"I've got plenty of endurance in me, darlin'. You might wanna ask if _you_ can keep up with _me_."

 

"Think I can," Daryl whispers breathily. "Think I can take whatever ya dish out, old man."

 

"I guess we'll have to wait and see, won't we?" Rick rumbles. Daryl shivers and leans back in for another kiss, moaning softly when Rick's hand cups the nape of his neck and keeps him in place. When they pull apart, Rick's lips scrape over the bristly stubble crawling up Daryl's jaw. "I love you so much it hurts to breathe sometimes. You know that?"

 

"Think I do," Daryl rasps. He turns and looks at Rick, and he finds himself drowning in pale eyes that are so close he can see Daryl's pupils dilating slowly. "I think ya got m'fuckin' heart, _agigau_. Ya know _that_?"

 

"I think I do," Rick echoes. Badger's insistence to find living grass is what finally puts space between them, and it makes both men laugh. Rick tugs gently on the reins, rolling his eyes playfully at the gelding's disgruntled snort when he's pulled away from his search. So far, it hasn't been a very snowy winter - not even over Christmas, when the whole group got together as a family and exchanged gifts. Rick still remembers the stunned look on Daryl's face when he saw the pile of gifts with his name on it.

 

Rick has the gift Daryl made for him sitting proudly displayed on his chest of drawers. The carving of the wild horse rears proudly off of the dark, stained wood - it's miniature mouth open in a silent, eternal scream. Beside it is an eagle, the wings folded and the talons splayed out to keep it balanced as its keen eyes keep vigil.

 

 _Yer th' horse_ , Daryl had explained. He hadn't been able to look at Rick, his cheeks pink and his shoulders curling nervously. _Proud, strong; free and loyal ta yer herd. M'th' eagle. **Yer** eagle. M'always gon' watch over ya from th' skies, when I ain't flyin' by yer side._

 

It's the most incredible thing Rick has ever been given, carved by a pair of hands he'd spent months admiring, and no one had said a single teasing remark when he'd pulled Daryl into a kiss that left their lungs burning for air afterwards.

 

"We doin' this're what?" The trainer smirks at him, crooked and sweet, and jerks his head toward the mountains. "Like ta get there an' get a fire goin' while we still got a bit'a light left."

 

Rick tips his head back to look up at the sky. There are no grey clouds covering the blue today - it's crystal clear away from the mountains, and the sun is shining brightly. It's a beautiful day for a ride; the perfect day to learn something about Daryl that he hasn't quite gotten to see yet.

 

Lowering his eyes, he meets the warm, pale gaze trained unerringly on him. "Lead the way, my wild sky," he smiles.

 

Daryl's smirk softens to a smile. "C'mon then. Let's ride."

 

\--

 

"Wait, you're _thirty_?"

 

Daryl gives him an unimpressed look, one dark eyebrow arching attractively. "How old did ya think I was, Rick?"

 

"I was guessin' twenty five," Rick admits with a shrug. "You just don't look that old at all."

 

"Yeah, guess ya didn' exactly ask me ta fill out an application when I showed up," the trainer agrees with a crooked grin. He's letting Streak pick her away along the deer trail he found, the filly's hooves much louder than a whitetail's but just as agile as they all wind along the path. Badger follows her languidly, his footing a lot more secure than Rick had worried it would be. The gelding may be older, but he's no less graceful as he follows his young herd mate through the forest toward the mountain.

 

"Guess I should have asked from the beginning, instead of assuming," Rick agrees with a rueful grin. He glances toward the sky through the skeletal branches crisscrossing above them, and then checks his watch. They're making surprisingly good time, although the air is starting to get colder the higher they go while the sun tracks Westward across the sky. The higher they go, the colder it gets, but so far it hasn't been unbearable. The only issue Rick is having is that his leg is starting to ache from the angle he has it at, but once he slips his foot from the stirrup and lets it hang, the soreness eases.

 

"Guess that makes it your turn," he says after a peaceful moment of quiet. They've been asking questions back and forth for about an hour now, and Rick has learned more about Daryl in just a short time than he ever expected to. "I can't believe you didn't tell me your birthday was in November."

 

"Weren't ever that big a thing ta celebrate," Daryl shrugs. "Just meant another year was done. Only good mem'ries of 'em were with my mom."

 

"Don't you think it's time to make new ones?" Rick asks gently. Daryl grunts and looks at him, something indecipherable in his gaze. The rolled brim of his knitted cap is slipping down, pushing his bangs over his eyes and making them trail down the bridge of his nose. He pushes them away irritably, clearing his line of sight and checking the trail ahead of them. Rick waits patiently - it sometimes takes Daryl a few minutes to think of a question.

 

"You ever wanna have kids?" the trainer finally asks. Rick frowns and mulls over the question, giving it the consideration it deserves before answering honestly.

 

"I might like to, someday," he murmurs. "It's not something I'll be heartbroken about if it never happens, but I like kids. I used to watch the neighbor woman's son, years ago. He was a sweet kid. His name was Dwyane. Right now, though, I'm perfectly happy with how my life is. Maybe some day, though."

 

"You'd wanna adopt?" Daryl looks at him and tilts his head. He looks intent, like Rick's answers mean something more than just a way to pass the time. It's flattering and curious, and it makes Rick want to answer all the more honestly. Clearly this is important, because all of the questions before were lighthearted and fun. This one actually has Daryl engaged, his eyebrows drawn in and his expression focused.

 

"Absolutely." Rick nods. "What about you?"

 

As Rick watches, Daryl looks down at his saddle and chews his lip. He looks shy suddenly, like he wasn't expecting his opinion of this to matter even though that's how they've been playing their game this whole time.

 

"I'd like ta, some day," he admits quietly. "Find a kid, maybe one that went through somethin' like I did, an' Carol an' Sophia. Show 'em there's more ta th' world than _that_ , y'know? Wanna show 'em that life gets so much better when ya ain't greetin' or endin' every day in pain. If I can make a difference, even if s'only f'r one kid, then s'worth it, ta me."

 

The words are quiet and gruff, but the pain and cutting honesty that Daryl speaks with slices deep into Rick's heart. He reaches over and squeezes one strong shoulder, smiling when pale blue eyes jump to his face. Daryl smiles back shakily after a moment; Rick watches him rouse himself from bitter memories until he's sitting tall and proud in his saddle again.

 

"Yer turn, cowboy."

 

"Why this particular place?" Rick asks. It's a question he's been wanting to ask since Daryl first announced that they were going on this trip. He knows it's somewhere special to the trainer, and Rick can deduce enough from that to know that Daryl's mother is somehow involved. He doesn't know anything beyond that. They're so deep into the woods that Rick doubts they'll even have cellphone service, which works just fine for him. It's the way men used to live back in the days of actual cowboys - roaming from place to place and living out of saddlebags. Those men had nothing but their horses and the nature around them, or the kindred spirits they met along the way.

 

People have become so enraptured with technology and sturdy houses. They build their habitats indoors instead of wandering outside and exploring what's already there for them. Men and women live through the screens of their phones and televisions, sitting comfortably on their couches and forgetting the world beyond their walls. Meanwhile, the world waits for them to come back, and the skies weep when man's greed leads them to tearing down forests to make room for Walmarts and mega malls.

 

Out here, Rick can forget about that. He breathes in the cold, crisp air and smells the rot of the leaf litter beneath them. He listens to the winter birds singing, and catches the faint sound of a nearby stream when he strains his ears to hear more. This far out in the forest, without telephone wires or the rumble of cars, Rick doesn't have to pretend. There's something so _old_ about this land - ancient and untouched by the passage of time. It's no wonder Daryl loves it so much.

 

The trainer doesn't answer right away. He seems lost in the peace of his memories, his eyes distant and soft as they trail over terrain that probably hasn't changed much since the last time he was here. Or maybe it has, and he's soaking in everything new like dry earth desperate for water after a long drought.

 

"Grew up here," is what he finally says. Rick wasn't expecting that at all, and he looks around again with new eyes. He tries to imagine a young, wild boy running through these woods - barefoot and streaked in mud, with pale eyes as sharp as an eagle's that missed nothing. He would already have been exposed to his father's cruelty by then, Rick imagines. Would it have fractured the innocence that would have otherwise shone from him like a beacon? Or would his childlike joy of the world around him - the magic and beauty of the horses that raised him with his mother - have been enough of a buffer then?

 

"House is prob'lly long gone by now," Daryl adds. He clucks his tongue and urges Streak off the deer trail, cutting through the wild, overgrown patches of dead ferns and rotting leaves that blanket the forest floor. Badger follows without prompting, overturning a buried stone with a back hoof and startling until Daryl's low croon soothes him. The trainer looks back at Rick, his smile crooked and dull in a way it should never be. "Ain't been back in a long while," he admits. "Should'a come, but couldn' never bring m'self to. Guess it jus' never felt right."

 

"And now it does?" The thought that bringing him here was enough to encourage Daryl to come back warms Rick's heart. It spreads through him, chasing away the chill that's been slowly creeping in. "Haven't you missed it?"

 

"Th' place? Hell yeah. Ev'ry damn day, feels like sometimes. But I wasn' ready ta come back. Not then. Guess I am now, though."

 

"Thank you for sharing this with me," Rick says with feeling. It means more than he could ever put into words, but luckily Daryl doesn't need words to understand him. They can read each other with just a look, and the trainer nods to him; smiling tenderly before facing forward and looking up the hill the horses are slowly climbing. Rick lets the silence settle, leaning forward to get some of the pressure off his hips and legs. They'd stopped for a short break about two hours before, leaving the horses to nose in the grass while they walked around and ate some of the jerky and apples Daryl brought along. Rick never did manage to eat before they left; his eagerness got the better of him. The horses had been ecstatic about their own apples, crunching through the crisp, sweet treats, and after they'd picked the last morsels off the ground the men had swung back into their saddles and continued on. Rick isn't saddle-sore, not in a way that'll make him stiff for the next few days. The hours of riding are starting to take their toll on his leg though, even with it hanging free of the stirrup.

 

"Looks like we made it," Daryl murmurs when the weak sunlight spilling over the top of the hill is close enough to reach out and touch. Anticipation fills Rick, something light and eager that whips around inside his chest like playful wind. The horses must sense it, or there's something else they're reacting to, because their heads come up and their ears twitch forward. Streak prances eagerly for a few steps, kicking up rocks and dirt as she strains to make it to the top of the rise. Daryl keeps her contained enough to not bolt ahead, but he doesn't do anything else to curb her excitement. It looks like it's starting to affect him too, and Rick watches the changes curiously. Daryl sits up straighter, his head lifted and his shoulders relaxed. There's something buzzing in the air, something that vibrates up from the ground and channels through them the closer they get to the top.

 

Rick can almost feel the aches from riding bleeding away - a light, refreshing warmth bubbling through his cold limbs and making him feel rejuvenated in ways he'd never expected. He laughs softly, unsure how else to react to such an incredible feeling, and Daryl rolls his head back to look at Rick over one shoulder. His pale eyes are wide and bright, his teeth showing in an exuberant smile - he looks younger than his thirty years, and even the twenty-five Rick had thought him to be. He looks like a man who spent so long missing something without even realizing it, and now that he's found what it was, all the worry and the stress from the long years is leeching away and leaving him as bright and young as he used to be.

 

At the top of the hill, the ground evens out for a few yards before dipping down again. The trees are thinner up here, and then they're gone, and Rick gapes at the valley stretching out in front of them as the horses pause at the edge of the downward slope.

 

It's not a perfect bowl - there is no such thing as that in nature - but it's probably the closest something could ever naturally get. Even in the middle of winter, the valley is gorgeous and warmer than the air beyond its natural walls. Rick can feel it even from where they are, and he breathes it in deeply. His eyes trace over the grassy hills, seeing where the forest borders them on all sides and the mountain rises from the trees along the Northern point. A stream winds down from there, tumbling over a small, rocky waterfall and running through the middle of the valley. Rick follows it as it flows out of the closest corner to them. The hills aren't as steep on that side, making a perfect entrance for anything that comes from that direction. It's also a perfect exit for the stream, the water tumbling over another small waterfall on its way out before it's swallowed up by the forest.

 

The sheer size of the valley is breathtaking. It seems to go on for miles, stretching out in front of them and melding up into the mountain that has led them here. Rick can see the fog wrapped around the peak, shrouding it in mystery that reverberates through the rancher and makes Daryl hum a low, warbling note beside him.

 

As the horses start making their way down into the valley, Rick notices that the air is changing. It almost seems to buzz against their clothes and skin; warming the back of Rick's neck and making him feel like he's simultaneously sinking into a sun-warmed stream and being lifted by a low thermal to hover above the earth. It's disconcerting, feeling like he's going in two directions at once, until Daryl lays a hand on his tense forearm and squeezes gently. His palm is almost hot enough to burn through the layers separating their skin, but the heat and contact help Rick focus until his eyes stop blurring and the pressure in his head eases somewhat.

 

"What the hell was that?" he gasps. He doesn't feel like he's been hit across the back of the head - there's no pain to accompany the sensations that left him feeling disjointed until Daryl gave him a point of focus. It was just like before, when he looked at the mountains and felt himself drifting until the trainer brought him back. This time, it was just a hell of a lot stronger. "Daryl, what just happened?"

 

"M'sorry," Daryl says softly. Streak presses up against Badger, the two whuffling quietly as they press Rick's good leg and Daryl's together between their bodies. Rick focuses on the warmth and the contact, aware of the hum against his skin now and trying not to let himself fall into it so easily. "Ain't been here in a while, Rick. F'rgot it could be tha' strong f'r someone who ain't used ta it."

 

"What is it?" Rick rubs his palm roughly against his forehead, the material of his gloves scraping the cold skin and making him hiss through his teeth. "I've never felt anything like that before."

 

"Ya have," Daryl insists. "Ya felt it b'fore, I know ya have. Just ain't nev'r felt it this strong. Yer gonna get used ta it, I promise. Jus' takes a bit'a time."

 

Rick frowns and tries to think about when Daryl could possibly be referring to. He's never felt something this intense before in his life - until Churchill Downs. Until that night after Streak's first race, her first win, when he and Daryl were in the alley. He'd felt it when Daryl had sung, and when he thinks of that, he can almost hear echoes of things in the charged air crawling over his skin. It's overwhelming, but it's not frightening. There's no danger in it, there can't be, or else Daryl would never have brought him here.

 

"Is it always like this?" he asks quietly.

 

Daryl shakes his head, drawing Rick's attention. He watches the man, blinking owlishly and swaying closer when Daryl croons low in his throat. "Nah, nev'r this intense," the trainer replies with a shake of his head. "S'been a while though. Land got wild, more'n it used ta be. Still feels more like comin' home than most'a th' oth'r places I've been th' past few years."

 

"Even the ranch?" Rick wonders curiously. Daryl's faint smile broadens, and he looks at Rick with pale blue eyes that glow with something Rick still isn't sure how to name.

 

"S'th' closest I ev'r got ta findin' home," the trainer admits. "S'mostly yer home though, an' ya still showed me ev'ry inch. Now, I get ta show ya all'a mine."


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a little late, but hey - it's still Monday! :D
> 
> Also, please be aware of the rating change and the neeeeeeeeeeeew tags! THAT'S RIGHT Y'ALL IT'S TIME FOR THE LOVE AND ALL OF RICK'S PATIENCE TO COME TO FRUITION. WOO!
> 
> Thanks to katytheinspiredworkaholic, who made sense of my rambling and is so very, very patient and awesome!
> 
> ENJOY~

The Dixon house is barely standing anymore when they find it - it hardly even looks like it used to be a house. Moss and ivy has grown up the rough-plank sides, and the roof probably caved in years ago, allowing vines and more ivy to crawl into the bowels of the structure. The porch is almost completely rotted. It's nothing more than a crumbling skeleton with thick, dead bushes growing up through the gaps. In the spring and summer it must look beautiful and wild. But right now, in winter, it's just dead and empty, sitting in the Eastern woods just beyond the valley. The windows are broken out, the glass probably nothing but fragments and dust. The black, rectangular cutouts make Rick think of empty, sorrowful eyes staring out from each side - something that saw far too much misery until it eventually consumed everything. The pain and anger have sunk so deeply into the walls that it physically changed the house itself into a sore, dying creature; it welcomes the slow death that takes it piece by piece because it knows the relief it will bring.

 

The place Daryl grew up was a one-story building, barely big enough to fit three people comfortably, much less four. Now, time and nature have reclaimed it - the wilds ripping it and the memories ground deeply into its walls apart and swallowing it back up. Even now, after all this time rotting away, Rick looks at it and feels the cold shiver of _wrongness_ trickle down his spine like icy droplets of water. The Dixon house, dying though it is, still holds enough negativity from the pains that took place to taint this part of the valley. It's a small, dark smudge in the corner of the canvas, but it's still _here_ , and Rick's fingers twitch with the desire to help nature finish what She started once and for all. He wants to eradicate the blight this decaying place leaves so that the earth, and maybe the memories etched deeply into Daryl's psyche, can finally heal.

 

"Ain't gonna do a lick'a good," Daryl mutters gruffly beside him. Rick looks at the trainer, and startles when cold fingers trace down one side of his jaw in gentle, circular motions. Rick hadn't even noticed he's been clenching and grinding his teeth, so overcome with anger that he blocked out anything else. He can feel his palms stinging and realizes that he's been digging his nails into them hard enough to feel through his gloves. Rick takes a slow, deep breath and turns to walk away from the remnants of the Dixon home. Daryl follows after him - a silent, watchful shadow - and as they get farther away, Rick feels himself relaxing. The tension making his muscles coil slips away, and his stiff, angry stride gentles into an easy lope.

 

"If I did it anyway, would it make any difference?" Rick asks once they're far enough away for him to find his words again. He glances at Daryl and watches the younger man blow into his hands to warm them up. It's warmer in the valley than beyond the borders of it, but it's still winter; Rick is grateful for his thick jacket, and his gloves. Daryl's are wet from breaking through the ice covering the slower parts of the stream so they could get themselves water. It had been frigid but crisp, and better than any bottled water Rick has ever had before. The horses can smash through it with their hooves, but Daryl chose to punch his way through the frozen layer rather than shouldering the beasts out of the way. He barely seems to notice, so Rick decides to keep an eye on the younger man's hands just in case.

 

It was Daryl's idea to turn Badger and Streak loose once they were free of their saddles and cargo. Rick has always been inclined to trust him, and he hasn't regretted it yet. In the hours they've spent trekking across the valley in loops and zigzags, neither horse has attempted to go beyond the edge of the forest. They've kept close to the camp instead, nosing around for whatever they can find until they're given their supper. Even now, where they're still grazing just a few yards away, their heads come up and turn toward the men as if they're waiting to hear the trainer's response as well.

 

Daryl gives the question a moment of consideration, chewing the stalk he'd plucked from the calf-high fields of grass that blanket the valley. "Dunno," he finally decides with a shrug. He looks at Rick and tilts his head, his blue eyes partially hidden by the wisps of dark bangs creeping out from beneath the rolled brim of his cap. "Seein' it gone don' mean it ain't happened. Memories last longer'n wood an' plaster."

 

There's nothing Rick can really respond to that with but a nod, because Daryl is right. Even if Rick tore apart every plank and burned them, it wouldn't change what happened. Scars like what that house has left behind, both in its corner of the valley and in Daryl, don't disappear just because the physical representation of its malice is gone. Daryl's father is dead, but the memory of what he did still lingers. It's the same with Daryl's mother - she's gone, but her love and kindness lives on in Daryl too.

 

Right now, there's something brewing in Daryl - those memories Rick had just been thinking about bubbling to the surface. His nose and cheeks are already pinker from the cold, but Rick can see a hint of it trailing down the trainer's throat and under the collar of his jacket. They're moving further and further away from the house - closer to the stream and the fur-lined, deerskin tent they set up when they staked out their campsite. Darkness is coming on fast, only the barest traces of pure light remaining outside of the growing shadows, but it's enough to see by. It's enough for Rick to watch Daryl physically gather himself, and his muscles tighten in response. When the words come, they're soft and jagged enough that it's a wonder they don't cut Daryl's throat and mouth apart on the way out.

 

"M'dad beat her t' death."

 

Rick is entirely unprepared for this particular confession, and the words smack him in the face with an anguish that's almost enough to send him reeling. Daryl's pain is as violent as a storm-churned tide, battering at everything around him and leaving a grainy residue that stings and sticks like wet sand.

 

"Daryl," he whispers, reaching out to put a hand on the trainer's shoulder. It trembles beneath the support he offers, and Daryl leans into the touch like he's searching for a strength he can't find within himself. His eyes are bright with tears; rimmed by redness and wet - so lost and tortured that Rick doesn't even believe the man is there with him any longer.

 

"Right in front'a me'n Merle," Daryl goes on shakily. He's keeping a hold on his words by the skin of his teeth, fighting and ripping himself apart to tell Rick something that was never his business to know. Not if Daryl didn't want to share it.

 

"You don't have to do this, sweetheart."

 

Daryl acts like he doesn't even hear him. He points off to the side, where the bowl of the valley slopes up in a grassy incline to meet with the forest that borders it. From there it grows into the mountain, something ancient and immovable; radiating a kind of power that makes Rick feel small and humble just from standing so close.

 

"Buried her there," the trainer whispers. A few tears drip down his cheeks, clinging to the line of his jaw before dropping to splatter against his jacket. "Wan'ed her ta rest near th' place she loved th' most. Where she could feed th' land sh' tended an' watch ov'r th' energies. Keep 'em aligned n'shit. Guess it didn' work as well as I was hopin'."

 

"You don't think so?" Rick looks at all the life surrounding them, even though winter has put it to rest until spring comes again. He breathes in deeply and smells the stream and the crisp mountain air. He can still feel the energy Daryl is talking about humming against his skin like a warm touch, and when he exhales the cloud formed by his breath hides his smile momentarily. "I think she's done a damn good job so far, don't you?" When Daryl looks at him, desperate for reassurance and drowning in bitter sorrow, Rick pulls him into a hug. He tucks his cold nose against Daryl's warm throat and kisses the damp skin. "This place is incredible, Daryl. It's the most beautiful place I've ever seen," he breathes. Daryl chokes on a strangled laugh.

 

"Should see it in spring," he mutters.

 

"I guess we'll just have to come back then, too." Brushing his lips over Daryl's neck in barely-there kisses, Rick hums low in his throat and lets the vibration pass from his lips into Daryl's skin. He's rewarded with a shiver and the quick catch of Daryl's breath - the gasp soft and almost lost to the darkness as night finally overtakes the last traces of evening.

 

"I love you so much, Daryl. And I know she loved you, too. You said it yourself - the energy has gotten stronger since the last time you were here. I bet this place missed you just as much as she did. But you're home now, darlin'. And this place... it senses that."

 

"Yeah," Daryl rasps. He nods, his chin bumping gently against Rick's head, and then his hands are squeezing the rancher's biceps and pulling him up so they're face to face.

 

Rick kisses Daryl like there's nothing else in the world but them. He kisses that eager, frantic mouth and feels hands strong enough to fight the meanest brawler or gently tend to the smallest creature wrap around the back of his neck. Daryl arches against him with a noise Rick would swear is a whine, and it's like the night explodes around them.

 

Lights ricochet behind Rick's eyelids, sizzling through his veins and heating him from the inside out. The air around them warms until he feels like he's going to sweat through his clothes, and he breaks the kiss to pant hotly against Daryl's cheek. He kisses the tanned skin and rough stubble - trails up defined cheekbones and places tender kisses beneath pale, fluttering eyes.

 

"I love your heart," Rick whispers as he kisses the bridge of Daryl's nose. "I love your mind," he adds, his lips pressing against dark strands of hair and age-worn wool when he nuzzles the trainer's forehead. "I love your soul, and your strength. I love how fuckin' wonderful you are in every goddamn way, Daryl. My wild sky - my free, proud Shy Boy."

 

"Rick," Daryl moans. The pale gasp of his breath hangs above them as he tips his head back. Rick kisses his bobbing Adam's apple and groans when he feels nails dig into his shoulders through his jacket and shirt. Daryl hangs on like everything is going to disappear if he loosens his hold even an inch - like Rick will fade away and he'll wake up and realize that all of this has just been a cruel dream.

 

"I'll never leave you," Rick swears. He slides his hands down Daryl's sides to rest them on his narrow hips; squeezing gently and feeling the way they jut toward him, like every inch of Daryl is straining to be closer. "Not unless you tell me to go," he adds softly. Daryl looks at him with eyes that glitter in the darkness. His mouth is swollen from their kisses; open and welcoming when he drags his tongue across his bottom lip and watches Rick track the movement like a lion following the path of a gazelle.

 

"Don' leave," Daryl whispers. His fingers push Rick's cap off, tangling in his thick curls and pulling him closer. "Don' ever fuckin' leave," he breathes against Rick's mouth, and Rick kisses him until Daryl is gasping for enough breath to get the next words out. "As long as th' moon glows an' th' sun shines, m'yers. M'heart, m'soul, m'love, m'journey - I share it all with ya."

 

"And I with you," Rick promises. "God, Daryl, I love you so fuckin' much it hurts to breathe. You know that, darlin'?"

 

"I do," Daryl smiles. He starts to back away, and Rick feels a brief flash of panic, thinking this shared moment is over, until Daryl's hands find his and the trainer interlocks their fingers. Rick lets himself be led, his eyes sharp and keen as he watches the emotions play over Daryl's gorgeous face. There's sorrow, but it's muted and contained - overtaking it is anticipation and a nervousness that makes Rick smile gently. He brings their woven fingers to his mouth and kisses Daryl's knuckles, closing his eyes and trusting the other man to guide him safely. That fact isn't lost on Daryl, who croons low in his throat and lets go long enough to get the flap of their tent open.

 

They stumble into the darkness of it, and Rick opens his eyes long enough to find the small lantern and turn it on. It illuminates the space and highlights the blush on Daryl's face; the all-consuming hunger in his eyes as he crouches amongst the blankets and pillows and looks at Rick like a lean, hungry wolf.

 

"Rick," he whispers, and his tone is soft. It echoes in layers, Rick's name wrapped around the scream of an eagle and the howl of a wolf -  rumbling like the thunder of hoofbeats and crackling like fire.

 

"Daryl," Rick rumbles back. "Tell me what you want."

 

"You, _agigau_ ," the trainer breathes. He's already slipping out of his jacket, his fingers quick and steady as he undoes the buttons of his shirt. "Fuck, Rick, I want _you_."

 

"You've got me, Daryl. Forever and always, darlin'."

 

They tumble back against the sleeping mats, the hard ground softened by spongy Styrofoam and thick blankets. The light from the lantern illuminates the furs stitched into the inside of the tent, their presence warming the cold air and trapping in the heat as Rick unlaces Daryl's boots and pulls them off the man's feet. He rolls down the worn, fraying socks with reverence and touches Daryl's toes - traces his fingers up the tops of the trainer's feet and slips beneath the ratty hem of his muddy jeans to wrap them around strong, bony ankles

 

"Rick," Daryl hisses. He grabs a fistful of the rancher's shirt and pulls him into a kiss that is all teeth and tongues. It's still a dance, rather than a battle - they nip and lick and nuzzle, and Daryl grits his teeth and moans when Rick's palm strokes down his bare chest for the first time. There are no scars on Daryl's torso - just freckles dotted here and there in clusters that Rick kisses tenderly. The man's shoulders are covered in them from all the hours he's spent sleeveless in the sun, and Rick kisses those too. He licks Daryl's collarbones and bites one gently, just to feel the body beneath him arch and bring them together like imperfect pieces that somehow still manage to fit perfectly against one another.

 

Rick remembers the tattoo that covers Daryl's back. He can see hints of the branch-wings when the trainer's arms rest limply above his dark, wild hair - the stark black ink curling around his sides enticingly and hinting at so much more. Hooded eyes watch him with a hunger Rick has never had aimed toward him before. It makes him groan, and he doesn't bother unbuttoning his shirt fully. He just slips the first two free and yanks it over his head before he's leaning down and settling against Daryl's waiting body.

 

"You get more gorgeous every time I look at you," he whispers against the man's sweaty throat. Daryl runs his fingers through Rick's hair, tugging gently every so often and gasping whenever Rick finds a new, sensitive spot. He licks and kisses and bites - sucks a faint mark against the swell of Daryl's ribcage on the right side that makes the trainer moan loudly. He leaves another one over Daryl's heart, and groans through his teeth when the man returns the favor. Rick is hard and aching in his jeans, and he can feel Daryl's own arousal pressing against his hip. There are a lot of ways that this can go, and Rick will love each and every one of them. There is one problem that they might face, though.

 

"I don't want to hurt you," he murmurs against the swell of Daryl's cheek. He feels the body beneath his shudder, and Daryl makes a desperate noise low in the back of his throat.

 

"Front pocket'a m'bag," he whispers. Rick doesn't ask, he just turns and fumbles with the zipper until he's got it open enough. He doesn't raise his eyebrows or make any teasing remarks about the unopened tube of lubricant Daryl has seen fit to bring along. Instead, Rick holds and looks at Daryl; tilts his head and dips his chin in silent question.

 

Trust and love glows in Daryl's heated eyes. He tips his head back in response, showing his throat fully like a wolf would show deference to their leader and watching Rick through his dark eyelashes.

 

_I'm ready._

 

Rick peels down Daryl's jeans and boxers in one go, his own getting even more uncomfortably tight when he sees how hard and eager Daryl is. His cock is thick and flushed from his desire, and the tip is wet. Licking his lips, the rancher rubs his thumb through the wetness and shivers at the noise Daryl makes. It's quiet and choked, like he's trying to swallow a moan or a sigh. Either way, it's one of the sexiest sounds Rick has ever heard. He pops open the cap of the tube and drizzles some clear, cool gel over his palm. Daryl watches him rub his hands together, those sharp eyes not missing how Rick makes sure his fingers are thoroughly coated.

 

In the bright light, Daryl is a vision of tanned skin and long limbs - illuminated and thrown into shadow simultaneously depending on how he shifts. His legs are already spread to accommodate Rick kneeling between them. His cock twitches when Rick slides his fingers up the trainer's inner thigh, leaving a shining trail that makes the older man bite his lip almost hard enough to draw blood.

 

"Please," Daryl groans, and Rick can't bear to make the gorgeous creature beneath him wait any longer. They've both waited too long already, and the first press of his fingers makes Daryl arch so severely Rick is amazed that his back doesn't crack. He watches, enraptured, as Daryl's mouth drops open and he pants harshly. Once, twice - a third punch of air from his lungs, and then his ragged moan rips through the overheated air between them and strikes Rick's heart like a thunderbolt.

 

"God," he moans, and Daryl rolls his body in another sinuous wave. He's liquid grace and feral beauty wrapped in human form - as beautiful and ethereal as a god even as he falls apart under the curious, searching press of Rick's fingers. His head thrashes from side to side, his nails dig into the blankets, and Rick grits his teeth at the heat and pressure that draws his flexing fingers even deeper inside the other man.

 

" _Rick_ ," Daryl groans. His eyes slit open, pinning the older man in place with the intensity shining from them - dark and blazing and demanding Rick's devout obedience as if it wasn't already freely given. " _Now_."

 

Rick scrambles to kick his boots and pants off, and Daryl helps; raking his nails across pale skin and making Rick hiss from the pleasure-pain. As soon as he's free, Daryl's knees lock around his hips and the trainer rolls them. Rick ends up with his back pressing into the sweat-damp blankets, looking up at Daryl as the man kneels above him. The lantern illuminates the trainer in a way that throws shadows across his features - all but those burning eyes that are fixed unerringly on him. Rick reaches up and drags Daryl down into a kiss, swallowing the man's devotion and offering his own as Daryl rocks down and Rick's hips arch - and their bodies join for the first time.

 

There's resistance, and Rick clenches his teeth as he tries not to drown in the heat and pressure. Daryl seems frozen, his mouth open and his head thrown back - his body arched and tense. Rick rubs at his sides and hips, crooning low in his throat. It's a familiar melody, but one he can't place. The notes wrap around them and sink beneath their sweaty skin, and then suddenly Daryl's body relaxes enough to welcome him and Rick falls into the man until there's not an inch of space between them. Broad hands settle on his chest, narrow hips rocking slowly, and Daryl's head tips down so they're looking at each other. The trainer's dark hair falls like a curtain over his face, hiding him from view, so Rick pushes it back gently and urges the younger man down into a kiss. Daryl kisses him like he's never going to get another chance - like he's found the most incredible thing in Rick and he's determined to never let it go.

 

They move together, their desire and their love twining and cresting like foamy waves breaking against the shore. Rick ebbs and Daryl flows, their synchronization something that Rick marvels at, because even like this, they have no need for words. There's no frantic, desperate declarations - no curses or hissed pleas. Daryl's body asks, and Rick's answers. He promises with the the arch of his hips, his thighs burning, and Daryl's lips sear against his shoulder; his fingers tangled in Rick's curls and his knees keeping him close as Rick rolls them so he can look down at the man he never expected to love - and never expects to let go.

 

"I love you, Daryl," he rumbles. To him, his words sound disjointed and fierce - the protective roar of a lion and the thunderous crash of a waterfall. Daryl's answer is like the rumble of hooves and the proud scream of a mustang - the thing that brought them together, and the magic that will never fade away.

 

" _Agigau_ ," he breathes. His eyes widen, his muscles tense, and he comes between them with an echoing moan that sparks along Rick's nerves and sinks deep into his bones. He groans through his own release, their mouths coming together one last frantic time, and they shudder through the aftermath wrapped around one another. Daryl's long fingers stroke down his sweaty spine, and Rick presses gentle kisses against the trainer's temples. He runs his fingers through Daryl's damp hair and cups the back of his neck to press their foreheads together.

 

"Until the end of time," Rick whispers. Daryl's laughs quietly against his cheek.

 

"An' then life begins again," he replies softly. "Again an' again, through all'a existence. I'll find ya, an' yer gonna find me. S'how this goes."

 

"I have no complaints." Rick kisses the corner of Daryl's mouth and watches his lips hitch up into a shy, crooked grin. "I love you so much it hurts to breathe, darlin'," he murmurs. This time, when he finishes, there's no question at the end. "You know that."

 

Daryl kisses the tips of his fingers and nods. "Love ya th' way th' mustang loves th' open plains, an' th' sweet spring grasses."

 

"That's a lot of love," Rick comments. They haven't tried to pull apart, and truthfully, he doesn't want to. Not just yet.

 

"S'a lot'a truth, too," Daryl quips back with a wider smile. "Better get used ta it, cowboy. Yer mine now. Ain't lettin' ya go."

 

"My sentiments exactly." They kiss again, slow and sweet, and their laughter melds into the fabric of the tent - bleeds out into the frosty night air to twine with the fading magics of the valley and sink back into the earth, where it settles with a hum that speaks of new beginnings.

 

\--

 

The snorts of horses rouses Rick from his sleep the next morning. He's wrapped in the blankets and curled around Daryl, the trainer's back pressed against his chest and their legs tangled together. Smiling, he nuzzles the nape of the man's neck and kisses the sleep-warm skin. Daryl shifts against him, arching in a lazy stretch, and Rick hums quietly when their naked skin rubs together.

 

"G'mornin', darlin'," he whispers. Daryl's hips settle back against his, and Rick can feel the traces of warm wetness left over from their lovemaking the night before. It fills him with love and elation, and he lifts himself up onto his elbow so he can lean over and see the face of his lover.

 

Daryl still looks half-asleep, his eyes unfocused and his features relaxed. Pale blue slowly meets his watchful stare, and the younger man's smile comes in a crawl that settles across his lips as he shifts to lay on his back.

 

"G'mornin, _agigau_ ," he murmurs. His voice is low and rough from sleep, and their morning breath is probably obscene, but Rick dips his head to kiss Daryl anyway. It's a slow, relaxed action - the two of them nuzzle more than actually kissing, and Daryl moans softly against his lips when Rick's hand strokes down the center of his chest to settle low on his stomach. "Got horses ta see," Daryl says against the corner of his mouth, and Rick nods slowly.

 

"Them before us," he agrees, although that wasn't quite true last night. Last night it was them first, their love and passion overtaking everything else until they were sated and settled in this brand new aspect of their relationship. Rick had _hoped_ , but he'd never assumed that here, in the middle of a valley tucked away in the wilds of Georgia, was where he and Daryl would finally take that step over the threshold they've been hovering at for so long. Afterwards, tangled together and speaking intermittently between soft kisses and gentle touches, they had been reminded by Streak that they had other obligations outside of one another. They'd laughed, and managed to get themselves decent enough to brave the cold, and they'd fed their waiting charges before crawling back into the tent and settling in for the night.

 

Now, as Rick slowly pulls himself from the hum of Daryl's bare skin against his own, he tunes into the world beyond the one they've made of their tent. He lets the sounds filter in, stroking Daryl's stomach, and frowns when he realizes that something isn't quite right. He hears the snorts of the horses, and the crunch of their hooves over the frost-stiff grass, but there's more of it than there should be.

 

"Daryl..."

 

"They came in aroun' dawn," Daryl says. There's a gentleness in his eyes that goes beyond Rick, something older and heavy with energy and excitement. He hasn't tried to move away, but anticipation has chased away the last of the fog of sleep. Right now, he's bright-eyed and relaxed beneath Rick; clearly waiting for something.

 

"They?" Rick asks. He kisses Daryl one last time before moving to dig new clothes out of his pack. His lover rolls over and sits up to do the same, their arms brushing and their eyes seeking out one another; their smiles small but saying so much as they get dressed and ready to meet the day - and whatever waits beyond the borders of the peace they've created amongst their rucked-up blankets.

 

It's Daryl who ties back the flap of the tent, letting the weak morning light spill in. Rick shields his eyes until they can adjust, and he waits for the trainer to slip out first before crawling out after him. Badger appears at his shoulder almost instantly, looking younger than Rick has ever seen him. His eyes are bright and alert, his thick fur sleek and his tail flicking. The gelding's warm, velvety muzzle presses against his shoulder, his sigh sweet and relaxed. Rick scratches under his jaw distractedly; looking past him and going very, very still when he sees the wild horses that have come into the valley.

 

There are fifteen in all, and Rick's hungry eyes mark each one and where they are. Their colors range from bay to buckskin, and there are multiple paints scattered amongst the darker bodies. There's even one that's so light gray she looks white, her dark brown eyes fixed on Daryl as the trainer slips amongst the bodies of the herd without fear. He approaches her with his hand outstretched, and Rick's breath freezes in his throat when the mare presses her muzzle against his lover's palm without hesitation.

 

"Yeah, ya 'member me?" Daryl croons. Rick watches her wide nostrils flare, and her eyes blink slowly as she allows the man to stroke her cheeks and nose, his hands working up to her ears and down her neck as he shifts to stand beside her. She lifts her head, hooks it over his back, and pulls Daryl against her broad chest as he wraps his arms around her. He tangles one hand in her mane and turns to lay his cheek against her shoulder. Rick sees his smile and his happiness, and the faint shimmer of tears on his cheeks as he and the horse lose themselves in one another for a little while.

 

"S'been a while," he hears the trainer murmur quietly. "Didn' know if ya would recognize me." The mare sneezes against his shoulders, and Daryl laughs at her clear answer.

 

As Rick watches, the wild horses drift closer one by one to inspect the man existing amongst them like he's never belonged anywhere else. Some greet him the same way the pale mare did, with nuzzles and playful lips tugging at his hair and clothes. A few sidle up to him warily, clearly uncertain about the human in their midst. Daryl lets them come at their own pace, keeping himself relaxed and calm, and Rick smiles as he watches his incredible lover win them over.

 

One horse in particular - a dark bay stallion with a large splotch of white painted over his shoulders, headbutts Daryl's chest hard enough to knock the air out of the man in a startled laugh. He hugs the horse's face, digging his nails into the dark fur under the stallion's jaws and scratching until the beast relaxes and lips at his zipper.

 

"Yeah, I know you," Daryl huffs. His pale eyes are bright, his crooked smile so wide his cheeks must hurt from it. "I 'member when you were jus' a sassy little shit. Lookit ya now. Got yer own herd an' everythin'."

 

Streak is grazing beside a bay and a paint, looking entirely unconcerned about the wild herd that has overtaken the valley - or perhaps reclaimed what was rightfully theirs to begin with. Daryl had said he grew up with horses - could some of them, like the mare and the stallion, be ones he knew when he was younger? Seeing his lover so happy as he reconnects with the herd makes Rick think of Monty Roberts and Shy Boy - how the mustang had left his wild home with the man, only to refuse to go back when Monty gave him the opportunity. Shy Boy was happy right where he was, with the man who had gained his trust and his love. What about Daryl, though? If given the opportunity, would he choose the same?

 

"C'n hear ya thinkin' clear across th' valley, _agigau_."

 

The words, spoken from right beside Rick, startle him enough to make him jump. He hadn't even heard Daryl picking his way back to Rick's side, and the trainer huffs at the expression on his face, looking warm and fond. His gentle eyes take in every inch of Rick, and his gloved fingers slide through the rancher's curls as he urges him closer for a kiss.

 

"M'not goin' anywhere, Rick," Daryl breathes against his mouth. "M'perfectly happy right where I am, on th' ranch with ya."

 

"You've missed them," Rick points out needlessly. He links his hands together against the dip of Daryl's back, keeping his lover close and looking intently into the calm, pale eyes looking back at him. "They're your herd."

 

"They _were_ my herd. Got a new one now," Daryl replies with a crooked smirk. "New family, new stallion - s'how th' wilds work sometimes. Can't always stay wit' th' same group. Shit gets muddied. Gotta find yer own way, start yer own herd - or join a new one. I did that. I c'n visit 'em, sure, but I ain't leavin' my herd t' come back. Don' need ta."

 

Rick has to kiss him again - laughs against Daryl's soft, welcoming lips and feels them twitch in response. "Stallion, huh?"

 

"Don' let it get ta yer head, cowboy," the trainer grumbles. He sounds too happy to be properly incensed; his arms wrapped tightly around Rick's back to keep him close as they turn their heads to watch a yearling filly attempt to entice Badger into a game of chase. The gelding snorts at her, seemingly annoyed, but the bright-eyed little chestnut will not be dissuaded.

 

"I'm amazed there weren't fights," Rick murmurs. "Strange horses on their land - you'd think there would have been some kind of altercation."

 

"Not in this place," Daryl replies. "Th' energies here, th' valley itself - it's like No Man's Land. Only peace may prosper here. Anythin' else jus' ain't allowed. S'why th' house ain't in th' valley itself. M'dad knew enough ta know what'd happen if he tried."

 

"It still seeped in," Rick points out.

 

Daryl nods. "S'always gonna. But if he'd tried it _here_ , th' land would'a fought back. In a way, it still did. Got killed by a horse, after all. Energy is strange like that. Karma's a bitch; ain't that what they say?"

 

"What is it, exactly?" Rick runs his fingers through Daryl's hair and feels the way the strands stick like they're charged by static electricity. It buzzes warmly against his palms and makes the backs of his hands feel cold, like its focus is centered where Daryl is. "This place, and the energies you talk about. What does it all mean?"

 

"Ain't magic, not th' way most people think'a th' shit." Daryl tips his head back into the caresses, and Rick can't resist kissing a trail up the side of the trainer's neck. He feels how Daryl shivers against him, his lover's breath a warm, misty cloud that gets caught amongst Rick's curls. His pale eyes are lidded, his muscles relaxed; when he hums low in his throat, Rick feels the energies _respond_. "Is what it is, what m'momma a'ways called it. Th' energies'a th' world, an' ev'ry single thing in it. Livin', even what's dead in th' winter. S'all got energy tha' spills out int'a th' air. If ya learn it, then ya c'n use it. Use it wrong though, an' it'll getcha. 'S long as ya got r'spect fer th' world an' Nature, you'll be fine."

 

"How can you use it?" Rick whispers. He looks around the valley, and the woods that stand tall like sentries around it - the mountain they stand in the shadow of, so ancient that Rick feels like a speck of dust next to its might. He'd noticed the faint charges in the air before - something he acknowledged briefly but never delved into - but never as strongly as after he met Daryl. The trainer has opened his eyes in ways he'd never expected. Rick always loved nature, and his horses, but Daryl has shown him a world he never experienced outside of movies and novels. This is _real_ _life_ , and here they are - standing beside a stream in a valley so rich with energy and power that Rick never knew was possible.

 

"Depends on how ya mean." Daryl looks at him, his fingers warm against the nape of Rick's neck when they slide up to settle there. The heat is almost unnatural, but it's not painful. Rick isn't afraid when his lover begins to hum quietly, and the horses raise their heads simultaneously. All of them, wild and tame, circle the two men and watch as Daryl starts to sing.

 

It's a language Rick isn't familiar with, but one he's heard from Daryl before. In Kentucky, tucked away out of sight, the trainer had sung like this. The melody is different this time, the words coming as slow as the seasons changing and rooting deeply inside of Rick. He feels the hair down his arms raise beneath his shirt and jacket. His back gets cold while the parts of him pressed against Daryl warm him even further. The air almost seems to shift, settling around their shoulders like a protective cloak, and Rick leans in to kiss the side of Daryl's mouth. The words reverberate through his lips; shiver through his veins and settle in his chest and bones in a way that can never be undone. He can almost physically feel Daryl making a place for himself, and the song bubbles up in Rick's throat and flows like water from him before he can think about it. He doesn't try to match Daryl's words, but he uses his own low, rumbling melody to harmonize in a way that makes Daryl's eyes wide and bright.

 

They look at each other, getting lost in one another all over again, and the horses sway closer until there's barely inches between their muzzles and the men. Most of them drop their heads to graze, but the pale grey mare watches every second with wise, unblinking eyes. Streak stands at her side, looking like the darkest shades of night compared to the pale mare's moon-like coat. Badger waits at her other shoulder, wickering softly, and Rick feels something from them as well. It's faint when compared to how he and Daryl are wrapped around one another, but he welcomes it and watches his lover's eyes soften.

 

"What was that?" he asks after all but the fading echoes of the song are left. Daryl kisses him rather than speaking, and Rick pulls the trainer closer. Hands settle on his hips, and Rick cups the man's face reverently. Their breaths mingle, their mouths wet and gentle as they kiss slowly. Daryl's tongue sears against his teeth, and Rick's draws a sigh from his lover when he relearn the contours of Daryl's mouth.

 

"I love you," he murmurs when the need for air wins out over slow, burning passion. Daryl nuzzles against his nose and kisses Rick's bearded cheek, sighing again and smiling against his cold skin.

 

"Love ya too. Thank ya f'r sharin' this with me."

 

"Everything, sweetheart." Rick rubs his thumbs against Daryl's cheeks and tilts his head up to kiss him again. "All I am, and all that I have. It's yours."

 

"Sap," Daryl teases, but he seems too content to be anything but fond. He looks more relaxed than Rick had ever seen him, with the horses around them and Rick's arms cradling him close. They relax in the comfort of each other for another long moment, forgetting about races and life beyond the here and now. There's something so magical and sacred about the valley, and Rick feels more honored than he can ever put into words that his lover trusted him enough to show him the place he grew up in.

 

They start to walk, and Rick slides his palm against Daryl's without even thinking about it - curls his fingers with the trainer's like it's something they do every day. They've never once held hands, but it feels so natural to do it now. Here, in this incredible place, with wild horses nosing at the dead grass and their own two mingling with the herd, Rick feels like the constraints of society are so far away that they aren't even a dust mote against the horizon. Some part of Daryl must agree, because after a quick, surprised twitch of the fingers woven with his, Daryl squeezes back and settles against Rick's side where he's always belonged. Even when they first met, when Rick saw the rough, wary man that watched him from beneath the pulled-down brim of a Stetson hat, he knew there was more than what his eyes saw. There was more than anyone saw, and more than Daryl probably even recognized within himself.

 

Time changes things. It changes people. Minutes tick by into years, which stretch into decades and centuries. It's an endless thing, but no minute is ever the same as the next. And in just the span of a minute, so much can change. For Rick, it felt like years, and yet only seconds, between first meeting the wary, beaten man and when he first realized just how beautiful Daryl truly was; how incredible and awe-inspiring his talents were, even if he couldn't recognize them in himself. Rick has enjoyed watching the trainer grow from a sharp-eyed, cornered beast to something unafraid to flourish amongst the people who have gathered around him.

 

Rick may be the unofficial leader of their rag-tag bunch, but Daryl is the one Rick turns to when he needs guidance. He's the rancher's solid foundation - the immovable rock that Rick can lean on when he needs a moment of quiet. There has never been a person in Rick's life so _serene_. Daryl doesn't need inane chatter. He doesn't need polite conversation or quick words to fill the silence that drifts around him like a peaceful breeze. His words are always precise, but his body language says more than words ever could. He reads Rick as easily as Rick reads him, the two of them sharing a brief glance before letting go and jumping across a narrow part of the stream. On the other side, Daryl takes his hand without hesitation, and Rick lets himself be led toward the forest on the eastern side of the valley.

 

"You haven't smoked once since we got here," he comments. It's only just occurred to him, something he noticed after staring at Daryl's mouth and realizing that he hasn't seen a familiar cigarette tucked between his lips.

 

"Wouldn't disrespect th' land like that," Daryl murmurs. "C'n tend ta a fire, but nothin' that'll be seen as an offense. 'Sides, don' really want 'em when I'm here. Could never really explain why. Th' energy just gives me somethin' smokes nev'r could, I guess."

 

Rick nods, squeezing Daryl's hand gently before bringing it up to kiss the trainer's rough, scarred knuckles. "You used to fight a lot, hmm?"

 

"Used ta, when it was me'n Merle out on th' town." His lover laughs quietly - a fond sound laced with amused exasperation. "Used ta nev'r think Merle was happy unless he was gettin' int'a brawls at bars. Didn' even hafta be drunk. Merle jus' liked fightin' someone that wasn' our dad."

 

"Better odds?" Rick asks, and he smiles at Daryl when the man snorts.

 

"Nah. He'd get his ass kicked 'bout as of'n as he'd win. Merle jus' liked fightin'. Didn' matter who, though he'd never hit a woman. Not fuckin' once. He hated assholes that beat on their women. S'how we met Carol."

 

Rick perks up at that. He's been wondering off and on for a while how his secretary and the trainer had first met, but Carol had always just smiled and shook her head whenever Rick brought it up - mentioned angels looking out for her in the forms of rough young men who just needed a chance. Rick knew exactly who she meant, but she never explained further.

 

"That right?"

 

"Yeah," Daryl nods. He chews his lower lip, distracting Rick for a moment, before letting the abused flesh go with a quiet sigh. "Dragged that bastard Ed out'a th' bar; yanked him off'a his fuckin' stool by his collar. Fucker kicked an' fought th' whole way, but Merle had a way'a gettin' int'a these rages. Called 'em his booze berserker moments. Too much alcohol, too much anger, an' he'd explode worse than dad sometimes. Guess he was th' right combination'a drunk an' pissed that night. Ed was there, an' Carol. She asked ta go ta th' bathroom an' he got her so hard she fell. Hit her face on th' bar on th' way down, an' Merle _lost_ _it_."

 

Rick vaguely remembers a call to break up a fight in one of Atlanta's seeder bars - how there'd been no one fighting when they got there with sirens blaring, and no one seemed to know how Ed Peletier ended up in the gravel parking lot with his face nearly caved in. That was the first night he'd met Carol, who was broken and terrified even with a swelling bruise and a fresh cut on her cheek; old bruises wringing her wrists and peeking from the sleeves and collar of her shirt.

 

"Your brother does damn good work," Rick snorts. "Shane and I got that call. You got him out of there before we showed up, I'm guessing?"

 

"Had ta," Daryl grins. There's a mischievous light in his pale eyes, the tip of one fang gleaming when he grins crookedly. "Knew the cops would haul him off without lookin' much further when they saw he was that drunk an' pissed. Figured gettin' him out'a there an' back int'a th' woods would be safest. Figured him bustin' his knuckles on bark was better than doin' it on a cop's face."

 

"Sounds like quite a character." Running his fingers through Daryl's hair, Rick smiles when his lover turns to face him and leans in for a kiss. He's learning quickly that he loves how open and unafraid the trainer has become as he's found the confidence in himself. There's nothing more beautiful than the younger man combing his fingers through Rick's curls and pulling him closer. Their lips drag together, desire warming them - warming Rick at least, as he slides his arms around his lover and fits Daryl's body firmly against his own. The biting winter air fades away, their worlds narrowing to just one another as they kiss until their lungs burn and their lips hitch into matching smiles against each other. They laugh quietly, white puffs of their breath tangling in Rick's beard and turning Daryl's face a rosier shade of pink.

 

"You ever gonna shave again, mountain man?" Daryl teases. Rick's hum is noncommittal as he tilts his head and nuzzles his beard against Daryl's scruffy cheek.

 

"I'm not the only one lettin' my forest grow, darlin'," he rumbles into the trainer's chilly ear. Daryl shivers and rubs their jaws together, the roughness of his short, sparse beard making Rick groan and bite the man's jawline gently. Daryl's three-day growth is attractive in a way Rick hadn't thought to expect. It lends a new air to the wildness that simmers beneath his skin - makes his neatly-kept moustache and goatee look rougher and unkempt.

 

Rick likes this version of Daryl. He likes that his lover's appearance matches his nature so well, and he can't help it when he leaves a trail of gentle bites down to the warm, chapped lips that open so eagerly for his next kiss. Daryl arches against him, their hips fitting snugly together, and Rick feels the spark of interest that quickly grows into an all-consuming desire.

 

Before it can go any further, Rick feels teeth sink into his lower lip in a sharp, playful nip. Daryl slips away like water through his fingers, nothing but his residual warmth left for Rick to cling to as he watches his lover back out of reach. He sees the twinkle in those pale blue eyes - the playful smirk tugging across those sensual lips. Standing up straighter, he looks his lover over curiously and tilts his head.

 

"Gotta catch me first," Daryl whispers, and then he's gone. Rick barely manages to catch the words, and even then shock keeps him rooted like a swaying sapling until Daryl is already leaping over the stream and vanishing amongst the bodies of the herd. It's then that Rick's mind catches up, and a hungry grin grows across his face as he pivots and lopes after the playful man.

 

"There aren't many places you can run, sweetheart," he points out as he crosses the stream and passes one of the wild mares. She lifts her head to look at him, her doe-soft eyes curious, and when he scratches her muzzle she blows out a wet snort against his palm.

 

Daryl's quiet laugh seems to echo from every corner of the valley, rolling with the wind and bouncing off the trees and the mountain to reverberate back to Rick. He pauses and tries to listen, wondering if he can just hear Daryl's footsteps amongst the heavier steps of the horses.

 

"That the best ya got?" Hot breath brushes over his ear, sending shivers through Rick and making him laugh. By the time he spins around again, Daryl is already gone; nothing but the faint hint of pines and musk to prove that he'd even been there at all. It reminds Rick that his lover grew up in this valley - he learned every inch of it long before Rick knew it existed. He's hunted in the surrounding woods, and played with the wild herd here in the bowl of the valley. He has the advantage, but Rick has never been one to give up even with the odds against him.

 

Skirting around the outside of the herd, Rick watches the horses. He doesn't look for Daryl - he watches the twitch and jump of the beasts' muscles. He watches for any of them to lift their heads or flick their tails. He hunts his prey using his surroundings, tuning into his instincts like he did for so long when he was a cop. He was always the better one at mapping out a situation based on his surroundings. He knew who to question and where to look, and it often drove Shane mad, because he could never figure out how Rick did it. He could never emulate that ability to use for himself, so he relied on his scowl and his size. They played good cop, bad cop, and it worked every time, because Rick knew how to read people.

 

Now, thanks to Daryl, he knows how to read horses, too.

 

Streak gives him away in the end. The filly turns her head, probably to nuzzle him, and Rick takes advantage. He spooks the thoroughbred, and a few of the wild horses, when he knocks into Daryl and sends them tumbling to the ground with a rumble of laughter. Daryl grins up at him, his eyes bright and his cheeks flushed from the thrill of their game. Rick has a gentle grip on the trainer's wrists, pinning them to the cold ground on either side of Daryl's head, and the image he creates is too gorgeous to ignore.

 

"I love you, my wild sky. My gorgeous fuckin' Shy Boy," Rick whispers against Daryl's lips. His lover rumbles low in his throat and kisses Rick like he's a desperate man lost in the desert, and he's just found his oasis. Rick kisses back like there's nothing better in the world than tasting Daryl's moans - drinking every inch of him down like the finest wine, and licking into his mouth to feast like a starving man. He lets go of his lover's wrists to cup the back of Daryl's head with one hand, cushioning his skull and threading his fingers through the dark strands. Daryl grips the nape of Rick's neck and fists his other hand in the front of the rancher's jacket, keeping him close like some part of him assumes there's anywhere else Rick would ever consider being right now, or ever again.

 

"Yer th' brightest star in my world, _agigau_ ," Daryl murmurs once they let an inch of space between them. Rick rolls over to lay on his back, smiling up at the sky and hardly noticing the chill from the ground bleeding through his clothes. Daryl throws a strong arm over his waist and lays against his side with his head pillowed on Rick's chest. His ear is pressed against the spot directly over Rick's heart, and he's humming a low, crooning tune in time with the beat of it. Rick hums along, pressing a hand between his lover's shoulder blades and feeling the faint thump of Daryl's heart.

 

It feels like a completed circuit between them. All points of contact are sparking and humming with electricity as they curl up together in the center of the field, watching the weak January sunlight - surrounded by the herd that meant so much to Daryl when he was a child, and the horses that are his life now. Badger wanders closer, his warm muzzle nudging Rick's head as he checks on them, and the rancher reaches up to pet the gelding's face with a smile. He drifts along on the contented energies that warm him from the outside in - all because of a man with pale blue eyes and the wild soul of an untamed mustang who crept warily into his life, and blossomed into something better than Rick had ever anticipated.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so very tired, my friends. I barely slept, and I had to work at an ungodly hour this morning. I am in desperate need of a nap, but first - it is Monday, and I owe you a chapter. <3
> 
> As with every other chapter, this was beta'd by katytheinspiredworkaholic, who is an angel and fretting at me right now to nap. Oops.
> 
> Without further ado - your weekly racing fix. And also gay love.
> 
> ... And a lot of anguish.
> 
> Please do not kill me.
> 
> *crawls away to sleep*

After they come back from the valley, the months seem to blur by. Time changes in a way Rick almost can't keep up with, but with Daryl by his side, he still has an anchor to keep him tethered. With the trainer beside him every step of the way, Rick handles interviews and news reporters, and he enlists Abraham to help keep away journalists desperate for a peek of Devil's Pride in her natural habitat. Buck becomes very skilled at alerting them when someone is coming, even if they're determined enough to park out on the main road and try to walk down the driveway.

 

Winter passes, and Streak races. Rick lives for the thrill of each trip - he and Daryl sitting side by side in the cab of the truck with Streak waiting eagerly in her trailer. They go from place to place, giving her the downtime she needs between each win and laughing at her impatience to be back out on the track. Running seems to become her entire existence - the challenge of it fires her up in a way nothing else has, and it shows. The name Devil's Pride becomes so well known that she makes it into the papers, and Rick is overwhelmed by the amount of support his filly receives. As the Kentucky Derby creeps closer, as Streak rips up every track her hooves hit, people whisper eagerly behind closed doors. They ask outright, and scream it at every race; stomping their feet and clapping their hands and howling as Streak wins by one length, and then _two_ ; _four_ , _six_ , _three_ , _five_. They want to know; they beg and shove microphones in Rick's face, their eyes pleading and the camera lens capturing his smiles as the question becomes like a mantra.

 

_Can she go all the way?_

 

Devil On Earth almost had, and even with a mangled leg, he'd still tried. Does his filly have that same determination to win at any cost? Can she carry on her sire's legacy, and go _further_? Or will that drive lead her to the same damnation the stallion had fallen into?

 

Spring creeps in slowly, melting away the harsh chill of winter with the promise of warmer weather as the year comes full-circle. Icicles melt off the trees, fresh green grass fighting it's way up through the frost; fragile new buds speckling the barren trees that slowly unfurl and grow into healthy green leaves.

 

Georgia sheds winter like she's peeling back the layers, and by the time April rolls around it's hard to remember that winter had seemed so long. The days warm, the breezes go from cutting to gentle, and the sweet scent of the new flowers makes everyone breathe in deeply and smile every time they step outside.

 

And through it all, Rick and Daryl learn each other in ways they never have before.

 

The day they're meant to leave for Lexington, Rick wakes up and immediately smiles against Daryl's nape. He kisses the sleep-warmed skin with a quiet hum; nuzzles the dark, soft strands of his lover's hair and feels the curling wisps tickle his cheeks. Daryl sighs quietly in his sleep and shifts back, pressing against Rick and settling deeper into their mattress. It's so rare for him to wake up before his lover, so Rick takes full advantage of it. Walking his fingers across the blankets, he feels the faint contours of Daryl's ribs and the slope of his side beneath the dark fabric before settling his palm over the man's hip. He squeezes gently, humming again, and Daryl arches against him like a lazy cat. The trainer rumbles deep in his throat, turning his face toward Rick slightly and cracking open pale, sleep-hazy eyes.

 

"G'mornin', darlin'," Rick murmurs. Daryl hums and rolls over to face him properly, tucking his face against Rick's throat and scraping dry lips against his Adam's apple. It's more of a nuzzle than a kiss, but it's still more than enough to spark the first muted tendrils of desire across Rick's nerves.

 

"Mornin'," Daryl mumbles. He stretches again, arching into Rick this time, and the rancher rolls them so that his lover is lying beneath him. Daryl's smirk is a slow, lazy thing that tugs his lips up; his eyes still somewhat unfocused but his hands sure when he tangles his fingers in Rick's curls and brings him down for a proper kiss. Rick threads his fingers into Daryl's dark, messy hair, petting through the silky strands and ignoring their morning breath as he settles between his lover's legs.

 

"No funny business, cowboy," Daryl chuckles breathily against his chin when he ducks his head to kiss the stubble. Sometimes, Rick misses his beard, but then Daryl will kiss the stubble or even drag his tongue against the grain of it, and Rick forgets about missing anything at all. "We got shit ta prepare."

 

"I know," Rick says. He dips down to kiss Daryl again before trailing down the long, tan line of his lover's throat. Daryl tilts his head back, giving him more room to work, and Rick rewards him by kissing up to the man's ear and biting the lobe gently. He's had a few months to familiarize himself with Daryl's body now, and he loves paying attention to every single spot that makes his lover respond in such beautiful ways.

 

Hissing through his teeth, Daryl bucks against him in a slow, sensual grind. Rick's own breath catches as their hips roll together, and he laughs lowly against the hinge of his lover's jaw before sitting back to look at the gorgeous creature sprawled across their bed. Daryl looks so content; smiling and rolling his eyes at the rancher's staring but not grumbling at him to stop.

 

"Every day with you is a gift I wouldn't  trade for anything." Stroking down Daryl's cheek, Rick smiles at the faint blush that follows his finger. The quiet trainer is still so shy about some things, and praise - like what Rick constantly showers him with - is still enough to make his lover squirm and look away with a huff.

 

"Sap," he mutters. It's become an endearing term between them. Daryl says it with so much love and affection that Rick's chest warms every single time, and he cups the younger man's cheek as he leans down to kiss him once more before they have to start their day.

 

Buck wanders in while they're getting dressed, jumping up and rubbing his face against the sheets while they watch him fondly. The heeler rolls and ends up on Daryl's pillow, his head turned to watch them and his tail thumping against the mattress.

 

"Breakfast, an' packin'?" Daryl looks at him, and Rick nods before dragging his shirt on. When he's got it situated, he looks up to find Daryl watching him with a peculiar look on his face. When he arches an eyebrow and tilts his head, his lover huffs and looks away; rolling his shoulders in a shrug.

 

"What? Was enjoyin' th' view," he mutters. Rick laughs and runs his fingers through his chaotic curls to try and tame them into something a little more presentable.

 

"Yeah? I felt the same way, darlin'. Love gettin' to see you first thing in the morning. You probably miss the girls though."

 

"Ain't all bad." Daryl eyes him from head to toe with a crooked smirk. He must be feeling playful, because he adds, "you got a nicer ass, that's f'r sure."

 

"You share our bed just for my ass?" Rick grins, and Daryl laughs - deep and rich and reverberating in Rick's chest. It feels like home; like sunlight after an overcast day, and new flowers after a long winter.

 

"You got a nice face too, I guess," his lover teases. He kisses Rick, and his mouth tastes like mint toothpaste and mouthwash. Rick chases those away, searching for his lover's natural flavor and rumbling when Daryl moans softly at his insistence.

 

"Love your everything, my wild sky," Rick chuckles. "Face, ass, snoring - I love your eyes the most though."

 

"Love yer fuckin' smile, asshole." Daryl is smiling despite his snark, looking sweet and relaxed as they stand with their arms around each other in the bedroom they now share.

 

It had been harder than Rick had anticipated, getting Daryl to share his bed. The man loved being out in the fields, although in the dead of winter he hopped from stall to stall to sleep with the horses that got turned in at night. Rick had worried about him freezing, even though the barn was heated, but his lover was kept warm by the horses he’d curled up against to sleep. Even so, Rick had snuck out on more than one occasion to drape a blanket over the trainer and slip away before Daryl could wake up. He hadn't always managed it; Daryl was too light of a sleeper. Sometimes, Rick was convinced his lover was only pretending to be asleep, and he was inclined to play along.

 

It was during one particularly harsh snowstorm that Rick finally coaxed his lover inside. Daryl had slipped into the bed looking like he was expecting to be thrown out at any minute. He'd only relaxed when Rick had pulled him close and draped an arm around his waist. He'd been in Rick's bed before that point. They spent quite a few nights in it, their bodies rocking together and their passion singing with every touch; their sounds muffled and intimate in the heated air between them. Daryl had never actually _slept_ on the mattress before, though. He'd always slipped back out after Rick was asleep, no matter how hard the rancher tried to convince him to stay.

 

That night, Rick had begged. The snow was already up to his shins - rare enough for their corner of Georgia that he'd even brought Streak and Lays in. The horses hadn't  protested, too eager to be out of the snow and the biting winds.

 

 _What are you so afraid of?_ he'd asked Daryl, confused and hurt and trying to _understand_.

 

 _I don't know_ , Daryl had replied quietly. He'd looked so nervous, like there was something he might do that would make Rick put him out in the cold again. His relaxation at the valley had faded once they were back in the 'real world'; flitting at the edges of every interaction but staying just out of reach.

 

 _I want you with me, darlin'. Always, and in all ways. That's not gonna change now that we're home._ Rick had held out his gloved hand, waiting patiently. Daryl had hesitated, looking between the offered hand and Rick's face like he was searching for the trap.

 

 _We do this, everything changes,_ his lover had whispered. He'd looked so hopeful, _yearning_ , and Rick remembers smiling as he'd taken a slow step closer.

 

_Only thing that changes is me gettin' to wake up and see you first thing every mornin'. C'mon, Shy Boy. Take a chance. Trust me. I'm not gonna take away your freedom. It's one of the best things about you._

 

 _Sap_ , Daryl had snorted. He'd been smiling though, and he'd finally reached out and taken Rick's hand. He'd let himself be led inside; had stood shivering faintly as Rick had undressed him, and they'd crawled into bed together. They hadn't even had sex. They'd just curled up together, Daryl's back fitting against Rick's front like they were made for each other, and they'd slept.

 

It had been the most peaceful night of sleep Rick can ever remember having. In the morning, he'd woken up to pale blue eyes watching him, and he'd kissed Daryl sweetly. It was the trainer who deepened it - who pulled Rick over himself and arched desperately into the touch of his fingers. He'd tried to muffle himself, tried to stifle his gasps against Rick's shoulders while digging blunt nails into the rancher's back, but it has still been the most beautiful act of freedom Rick had ever witnessed.

 

"Ya check out on me or somethin', cowboy?"

 

Blinking, Rick refocuses and realizes he's spent the last several minutes staring at Daryl. His lover is smiling fondly and shaking his head. When Rick smiles sheepishly back, the trainer huffs out a laugh.

 

"Ya back now?"

 

"Yeah, I'm back." Running his fingers through the hair at Daryl's nape, Rick coaxes the younger man closer and kisses him deeply. He tries to keep it short - he knows they have to get everything settled before they leave - but he can't bring himself to end it too quickly. Daryl seems to feel the same way, wrapping his arms around Rick and keeping him close. It's only when Buck starts whining that they finally separate. The heeler is waiting at the bedroom door, looking between them and the hallway, and Rick figures that's enough motivation for them to start their day.

 

Breakfast is already waiting when they get downstairs, and they share a smile when they see Beth bustling around the kitchen getting the mugs and the coffee ready. She's always so excited when it's her turn on the rotation. Rick sometimes thinks it's getting out of Georgia and seeing new places. Daryl says it's entirely the horses that she goes to see. Whatever it is, she always gets up earlier than everyone else on the day they're meant to leave, and she makes a large enough breakfast that none of them will be hungry for a good long while - maybe not even until they arrive at the Keeneland track. Daryl always brings along snacks regardless. He'd killed a buck on their last day in the valley, and Rick had been transfixed as he'd watched the man butcher the deer. Daryl had set aside an offering of meat, bones, and pieces of fur - his way of giving thanks for the buck's sacrifice. The rest, he'd brought back with them. Beth has thoroughly enjoyed coming up with ways to prepare the meat, and they'd brought enough to last them for months.

 

Rick bites into a link of venison sausage and hums at the flavors that explode over his tastebuds. It's so different than beef that he's almost unwilling to go back to cattle. Daryl knows it too, and his lover smirks crookedly as he eats his own breakfast.

 

"This is the last one, right? Before the Derby?" Beth looks so excited; her breakfast barely touched and her blue eyes wide and bright. She looks at both of them, remembering to eat when Daryl looks pointedly at her plate with his eyebrows raised. Her smile is sheepish, her enthusiasm barely dampened, but she finally focuses on eating.

 

"Even if she gets second place, she's still got enough points." Rick finishes off his sausage and licks the juices from his fingers, trying to ignore the way Daryl's stare burns into the side of his head. If he had to guess, his lover is incredulous at his blatant actions, but sausage this good would only be ruined by silverware. At least in Rick's opinion.

 

"Asshole," the trainer mutters under his breath. Rick grins and pops his thumb out of his mouth deliberately. Daryl's knee knocks against his, the man's socked foot hooking around the inside of his ankle, and Beth shakes her head at both of them.

 

"Y'all act like teenagers," she chuckles. Neither of them apologize, and she laughs warmly before clearing away the plates and shooing them back toward the stairs. "Finish packin', you two. Go on. Ain't you the ones that said we were leavin' by ten? If y'all keep it up, we'll still be here at noon."

 

"Ya just wanna flirt with them Kentucky boys sum'ore," Daryl snorts. Rick covers his mouth to hide his grin when Beth turns a faint shade of pink, and they're kind enough to ignore that she doesn't deny the claim.

 

" _Shoo_ ," she says instead, her hands on her hips and a towel thrown over her shoulder. She's a small woman, and her pixie-like features make her look a lot younger than she actually is, but she's a force to be reckoned with when she's determined. She learned _that_ from Carol.

 

Rick and Daryl wisely shoo.

 

By the time ten rolls around, they're packed and ready to go. Streak practically runs up the ramp onto the trailer, dancing in place and waiting impatiently until she's tied to the tie loop. The second Daryl hangs the bag of hay, she shoves her muzzle in and starts eating. She's done this song and dance so many times now it's become second-nature. Lexington is eleven hours away, so they've already planned several stops to walk her and give her water. Between now and each one, she's content to look out the windows and watch the world roll by. She knows what the trailer means, she's far from stupid; she whinnies loudly as soon as the door is shut. The rest of the horses whinny back, and Lays even comes to the gate of the chute to scream her goodbyes. Seeing the dark chestnut makes Rick smile. Looking at the mare now as she tosses her head and paws at the gates, it's hard to picture her in the cast she'd worn for so long. She barely seems affected by the injury she'd suffered, and for that, Rick is overjoyed.

 

"M'drivin'," Daryl grunts. He snatches the keys before Rick can offer them, and they climb into their respective sides. Rick belts himself in and leans back against the seat, watching Daryl from the corner of his eye and smiling.

 

Abraham and Carol pull out ahead of them, the mud-splattered Jeep roaring up the driveway while Buck races beside it. Beth leans out the window to wave goodbye to those staying behind, while Sasha shakes her head at the girl. Rick isn't fooled - he can see a hint of the jockey's smile. He knows how infectious Beth's happiness is, and even Daryl isn't immune to it anymore.

 

Sure enough, his lover is smiling as he watches Beth lean a little farther out the window. Abraham is driving slowly enough, but they still see when Sasha grabs the girl by her belt loops and yanks her back into the car. Rick chuckles and tilts his head back against the headrest; closes his eyes and lets the quiet sounds of the radio wrap him up and lull him into complacency. Even when Daryl gets annoyed at a song and turns it off with a huff, they still have the sounds of spring that filter in through the open windows.

 

"Been thinkin'," Daryl finally says. Rick cracks open an eye and glances at the time - forty minutes since they left.

 

"That what I was hearin' all that time?" Sitting up straight, he gives Daryl his full attention. His tone may be light and playful, but he can easily read the shuttered expression on his lover's face. Daryl has something to say, something he's probably been chewing over for a long time. His pale eyes are strangely intense, and mournful in a way that Rick isn't used to seeing. He's already reaching out to rest his hand on Daryl's arm when his lover grabs his wrist to stop him. The man glances at him and licks his lips; squeezes Rick's wrist gently and lets go with a quick shake of his head.

 

"Could'a been," he murmurs. Looking out the front windshield again, he grips the steering wheel with both hands hard enough that Rick hears it creak in protest.

 

"Daryl, what's wrong?"

 

"'Member when ya were talkin' 'bout that mare that foundered?" His lover won't look at him at all now, even when Rick leans forward to try and catch his averted gaze. Daryl deliberately turns his head away, one hand coming up so he can chew on his cuticles.

 

 "Yeah, I remember. Darlin', what's goin' through that head of yours?"

 

"When sufferin' outweighs th' quality'a life, the kindest thing ya can go is let 'em go, right? S'what we'd talked about."

 

"I believe that, yes." Rick watches the trainer closely, trying to puzzle out where Daryl is going with this. "If keeping them alive is just causing them more pain, then it's better to put them to sleep. No one, human or animal, should be allowed to suffer like that."

 

"What if ya don't know?" Daryl whispers. His words are mumbled around his thumbnail, a thin trail of red leaking down the side where he's torn the skin open. Rick makes a quiet, wounded sound low in his throat and reaches over. His lover doesn't fight him this time - lets the rancher take his hand and dig a napkin out of the center console to clean away the blood welling up from the wound.

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"If ya weren't gonna wake up from yer coma, but it didn't seem like ya were sufferin', would ya have wanted 'em ta pull th' plug?"

 

"What kind of life would I have had otherwise?" Dabbing at the bite, Rick checks to see how badly Daryl got himself. It's a habit he hasn't often seen from his lover, but the faded scars are still there, and Rick has always been good at spotting a habit. "If I wasn't meant to wake up, I would have wanted them to let me go. They'd already moved on, so letting me do the same would have only been fair. I woke up though. My responses to stimulation were still hopeful enough. They said my will to survive was one of the strongest they'd ever seen. I just needed time to heal." Looking up at Daryl through his curling bangs, Rick tilts his head. "This isn't about me, though."

 

"Merle keeps flatlinin'," Daryl finally admits, the words barely-audible and full of so much helplessness and anguish that Rick's heart clenches painfully. "He stopped breathin' on his own. They hooked him up ta a respirator ta keep him goin', but.... Rick, he ain't fuckin' wakin' up. It's been three years. He ain't responded ta nothin' in months. I just..."

 

"He's your brother," Rick says gently. "He meant so much to you, Daryl. He still does."

 

"He ain't got a fuckin' life," the trainer chokes out. His voice is thick, and rasps horribly. He sounds like he's got a cold, and Rick's eyes burn as his throat closes against the swell of tears he can feel coming. "He ain't comin' back, Rick. Right now, he's jus' _sufferin_ '. An' I'm lettin' it happen. I ain't no better than that fuckin' farm that was keepin' that mare alive for th' foals. Only Merle _ain't_ _comin'_ _back_. M'just keepin' him breathin' 'cause _I_ ain't willin' ta say g'bye."

 

Daryl is crying, although he doesn't seem to realize it. The tears are running down his face and dripping off his jaw to soak into his shirt. Reaching over, Rick brushes them away gently and feels the way his lover's sorrow clings to the tips of his fingers.

 

"Pull over, Daryl," he murmurs, and the man doesn't argue. He turns on the four-way lights and parks along the shoulder of the highway. Rick texts Carol quickly, telling them to keep going, and then he drops his phone and pulls Daryl's unresisting body against his own. He tucks his lover's head under his chin and kisses Daryl’s dark hair, humming softly and closing his burning eyes when he hears the first choked-off sob.

 

It's the most emotion he's seen from his lover since their first kiss, which seems so long ago. Even then, Daryl's pain had been well-contained behind the walls he'd kept up for so long. Now those walls are crumpled and ground to dust, at least around Rick, and the trainer's pain at the thought of losing his brother is so brutal and heartbreaking that tears roll down the bridge of Rick's nose and drip into Daryl's hair when he tilts his head down to kiss the crown of his lover's scalp.

 

"I'm so sorry, darlin'," he whispers roughly. His voice is almost gone, his throat tight and aching as he forces down his sorrow to focus on trying to help Daryl. All he wants to do is fix this, but there's nothing he can do in this situation. He can't bring Merle back. He can't make Daryl's brother miraculously recover. All he can do is hold Daryl together with his love and his arms, and pray that's enough for now.

 

This isn't the kind of anguish someone just recovers from. Daryl won't be okay after a good cry and some sleep. This is something broken and jagged; something that's ripping his lover apart inside and spilling tears as hot as blood over Rick's wrist when he reaches up gently to try and wipe them off the trainer's face. Daryl's mouth is open wide against the base of his palm, blunt teeth digging into Rick's flesh as his barking sobs wrack through his body. He's curling closer, his hands fisted in Rick's shirt so tightly his collar is digging into his nape. He doesn't try to stop Daryl, because he has no right to. Any small ache is miniscule compared to what his lover is feeling right now, so Rick presses his lips against Daryl's hair and hugs him tighter. He cries while his lover's agonized sobs dwindle into choked-back whimpers and ragged panting. He pets Daryl's hair and rubs his back, ignoring the saliva and tears that have soaked into his shoulder and the front of his shirt.

 

"I can't afford ta pay th' facility much longer," Daryl admits hoarsely as the last of his tears leak from the corner of his glassy eyes. He pulls back enough to look at Rick, his head tilted at an awkward angle and his cheeks red and splotchy from crying. He looks like a mess, but Rick doesn't care. He wipes the last of the wetness away and presses a kiss to his lover's hot forehead, feeling how warm he's become in such a short time.

 

"I can help," he offers quietly. With what Streak has already made, as well as what Rick had tucked away before she ever set foot on a track, he's not hurting for money. He could easily - and happily - do this for Daryl if it brought his lover some peace of mind.

 

Daryl would never agree though. He's already shaking his head, his eyes bloodshot and his nose running. He sniffs and tries to bring his wrist up to rub it away, but Rick gets there first. He uses a corner of his shirt to clean Daryl's face, and his lover closes his eyes. He sits quietly and doesn't protest, and Rick sees how _tired_ he looks suddenly. The weariness doesn't fit him at all, and Rick would be much happier to see it gone.

 

The trainer shakes his head fervently again. " _No_ , Rick. Thank ya fer offerin', but no. He ain't wakin' up. At this point, I'm jus' buryin' m'self in debt ta care fer a... fer a corpse." He grits the word out, his jaw clenched and his lips peeled back as he forces himself to say what he's so clearly trying not to face. "A _corpse_ that looks like m'brother but ain't got a damn lick'a his fuckin' sass or his smart mouth, y'know?"

 

"Whatever you decide, Daryl, I'll be here." Rick presses their foreheads together and kisses the trainer gently. He ignores the taste of salt and misery, and when Daryl surges forward to try and make the kiss rougher, he holds his lover back and eases him into something slower and sweeter.

 

"I know none of this changes the decision you have to make, darlin', but no matter what you choose, I'm right here." Rick runs his fingers through Daryl's hair and cups the sides of his neck. He kisses him again and ignores the roar of the traffic thundering by outside. He doesn't care if every single person is staring at them. He just cares about the man pulling back to rest his head on Rick's shoulder. He cares about pale blue eyes and sweet, shy smiles; his Shy Boy, his gorgeous wild sky, who is hurting so badly right now and desperately needs someone strong to lean on. He'd probably never ask for it otherwise, he'd be determined to stand on his own, but he doesn't have to. He'll never have to suffer alone again, and Rick will give anything without a second thought if that's what it would take.

 

"I love you," he whispers against the shell of Daryl's ear. "I love you so much it hurts to breathe, darlin'. And I'm never gonna leave you, no matter what. You've got me forever, Daryl."

 

"Until th' end'a time," Daryl agrees hoarsely. Rick can see the barest twitch of a smile, and he kisses one red, damp cheek.

 

"Whatever you decide," he murmurs.

 

"He's sufferin'." Daryl isn't looking at him. He's tracing random patterns over Rick's shirt front, his eyes mostly closed and his voice faint. "He ain't comin' back. He's got no damn quality'a life."

 

"That doesn't make it any easier, Daryl." Leaning back against the door, Rick rests his head against the glass and keeps Daryl close. It can't be comfortable, being pulled over the center console, but Daryl doesn't say anything about it. He rests against Rick, tracing his fingers lightly over the rancher's arms.

 

Eventually, he sighs and sits up. Rick follows, keeping contact, while he waits for his lover to come to a decision. "It does, though," the younger man murmurs. "Makes it the easiest damn decision in th' world, Rick. Don't mean I gotta like it, though."

 

"Doesn't mean you have to make it alone, either," Rick counters. Daryl nods, the tension bleeding out of him, and restarts the truck. He pulls them back out into traffic, merging into the flow of vehicles easily; keeping one hand on the wheel and letting Rick take his other one. Their fingers curl together, palms warm and solid, and they don't say a word until they reach their first stop and rejoin the others.

 

"Thanks," Daryl whispers. Aside from a hint of red in his sclera, it's impossible to tell he had been crying.

 

"Nothin' to thank me for, darlin'," Rick replies softly before opening his door and sliding out to go and get Streak. Daryl follows, meeting him at the door of the trailer, and they share a gentle smile before the filly whistles shrilly to remind them she's there too.

 

As if they could ever forget.

 

\--

 

Keeneland race track is buzzing with activity. The air is charged, the energies buzzing against Rick's skin and humming low in the back of his mind. Daryl winces like he's just been physically slapped, reaching up to rub his temples. They know it won't do any good, and at least this energy is from excitement. This is the last qualifying race for the Kentucky Derby. After today, the points will be tallied and Streak will - hopefully - be on her way. Rick paid the entry fees a long time ago - now his filly just has to show the world what she's truly made of. There's more at stake this time, and it's affecting everyone.

 

The horses are unruly when they lead Streak into the stable. Colts scream and kick their doors, snapping at each other through the bars and glaring around with rolling eyes as their handlers try to get them settled. It's not even the day of the race, but everyone knows that this is the race to go all-out in.

 

Streak fights going in her stall, snorting and jerking her head. She doesn't want to be inside, she _hates_ the containment, but there's nothing they can do about it. The filly has to go in, and it takes Rick and Daryl coaxing together to make her reluctantly give in. She's clearly unhappy about it; butting at Daryl's chest hard enough to knock the wind out of him as soon as her halter is off.

 

"I know, little devil," he murmurs. He lets her lip and chew at his shirt, her ears laid back and her eyes glittering as the atmosphere winds her up. If anything, all of the energy charging the air and making Rick's temples ache is doing them a favor. Streak will soak it in, winding herself up more and more, until the buzzer blares and the gates snap open on racing day.

 

This isn't their first time at Keeneland, so there's no need to familiarize themselves with the track, but Daryl does it anyway. Rick watches his lover inspect every inch like it's their first time there. A cloud of bitter-scented smoke follows him every step of the way, the cherry a constant glow by the corner of his mouth unless he's offering it to Rick. They share a lot of them over the next few days - spend a lot of time in silence, watching horses learn the tracks and trainers meet with jockeys and owners to try and figure out their best course of action. The mood is friendly enough. Men and women wave at Rick or nod their heads respectfully, and he does the same.

 

The days wind them up just as much as Streak, who gets a little more aggressive with each setting sun. At least Daryl and Rick can curl up together at night, drawing comfort from each other. They talk quietly, and kiss gently - love passionately and greet each new day with slow smiles while Streak screams her challenges at the colts around her.

 

The morning of the Lexington Stakes, Daryl wakes Rick up with a kiss to his sternum and gentle fingers in his hair. "T'day's th' day," he murmurs roughly. His pale eyes are excited, his body thrumming with energy against Rick's. He rumbles low in his throat, and Rick croons in return.

 

"Win or lose, she'll give 'em somethin' to talk about," Rick chuckles. Daryl snorts against his shoulder and rolls over to sit up. The blanket pools around his waist, showing his naked back and the bold, black art of his tattoo. Rick strokes his fingers down the center of Daryl's spine, letting them trace over the streamlined form of the horse.

 

"I love you so much it hurts to breathe, my wild sky."

 

"With all m'heart an' soul, _agigau_ ," Daryl replies softly. He stretches his arms over his head and arches his back. Rick listens to the crack and pops of his spine adjusting while his eyes trail over the faint marks littering his lover's shoulders. They match the bites stinging on Rick's, the bruises faint but still there. His lover looks so gorgeous in the warm morning light spilling through the window. It highlights his strong body in ways that make Rick want to pull him back into bed. He would, if they didn't have a race to attend, so instead he slides out of bed and lets Daryl admire his naked body as he goes to dig through his duffel bag. His suit is hanging in the closet beside Daryl's, but everything else is still packed away.

 

"Ya should be fuckin' illegal, Grimes," the trainer huffs. Rick smirks playfully at him from over one shoulder. Daryl smirks back, the blanket falling away as he stands up as well, and it's Rick's turn to stare.

 

"Never saw a more gorgeous fuckin' sight," he rumbles. Daryl tilts his head, licking his lips slowly, and smiles before slipping into the bathroom.

 

"Nothin' but a horse runnin' free," he agrees before closing the door. Rick can't argue with that - horses are their lives, and one filly in particular is the beast that brought them together. Streak was their common interest until they found new ones to grow from, and Rick will forever to be grateful to his filly - and to Dale, for sending Daryl his way to begin with.

 

They get dressed, and Daryl doesn't say anything about Rick stepping close to tie the trainer's dark blue tie. He looks stunning in his pale shirt and the matching charcoal vest - the tie that makes his eyes look even more breathtaking in Rick's opinion, and the slacks that fit him perfectly. He's fucking gorgeous, and Rick holds his lover's chin as he kisses him. Daryl kisses back eagerly, his hands pressed carefully against Rick's back so as not to wrinkle his jacket. He's so careful about it, wanting the rancher to look pristine, and Rick loves him so much he honestly can't breathe from it when they finally pull apart.

 

"C'mon," Daryl smiles. He runs his hand through Rick's curls before fixing his dark burgundy tie. "Let's go feed th' vultures an' wait for our girl ta blow us all away."

 

Interviews are a tedious chore, but Rick handles the barrage of questions with grace. He smiles and laughs, charming the reporter and watching Daryl where his lover waits just behind the cameraman. The trainer has his phone pressed to his ear, his eyes hidden by his bangs and a thumb caught between his teeth as he talks quietly to whoever is on the other end. Rick knows, he doesn't need to be told, so when he's finally allowed to go and ready his horse, Daryl doesn't bother trying to explain. He stays close, quiet and trying to pull into himself until Rick squeezes his lover's shoulder and gets those anguished eyes fixed on him.

 

"Never alone, darlin'," he murmurs. "No matter what, I'm here."

 

"I know," Daryl mutters. "Jus'.... wish it weren't _t'day_."

 

"It happens when it happens, no matter what we wish. Fate's cruel like that sometimes." Rick glances up, his eyes searching the clouds as he remembers the first time he ever saw Daryl make a silent wish to a fragile thistle seed. He almost thinks he can see one floating high above them, dancing along on the wind currents, but when he blinks again, it's gone.

 

Streak is not patient for them. The filly is a terror to get saddled up, and chews the bit harshly enough that Rick worries about her hurting herself. She tosses her head and digs furrows into the ground, and Daryl barely gets her calm enough for Sasha to swing up into the saddle. As soon as the jockey is in place, Streak dances impatiently and snorts. Rick places his hands on her cheeks, feeling the muscles working beneath his palms; presses his forehead against the whorl on her forehead and breathes a slow, calm breath against her dark face.

 

"Last chance before the big leagues, sweetheart," he murmurs. She settles enough to sigh at him, her muzzle nosing at his chest and leaving a streak of hay dust and dirt over his lapels. Rick just laughs and kisses her face, feeling how she buzzes and thrums beneath his skin.

 

His filly is a beautiful horse, big and powerful and full of attitude that none can match. There's something almost otherworldly about her - ethereal and magical and unforgettable. She turns heads, she makes people remember her - the pitch-black mare with the blood of the Devil in her and the speed of a windstorm.

 

If Streak doesn't win this race, she's not disqualified from the Derby. She's won too many, and racked up more points than Rick had ever anticipated. She's his undefeated pride and joy, his wildling filly that he loves more than he could ever express into any microphone. Streak is one of a kind - one of the greats already, purely because of her drive to _run_. She embodies everything a horse should stand for, whether they ever step onto a track or spend their lives grazing peacefully in a pasture.

 

Sasha and Streak walk through the tunnel, their heads held high. Daryl holds onto the reins, looking just as proud, and Rick loves them all so much his eyes burn from the emotion. His family may be a mismatched bunch of people from all walks of life, but they've been brought together by a common interest, and the bonds they've formed because of it are nothing short of incredible.

 

The announcer calls out Streak's arrival, and the people in the stands roar their approval. The sound of their clapping is almost deafening, but Streak acts like they aren't even there. She snakes her head at the pony and rider that come to lead her to the gate, but she knows not to bite. She doesn't try anything aside from side-stepping away from them, before dancing up alongside the paint and letting the rider take her reins from Daryl. They lead her away, and Daryl follows Rick up into the stands to find their seats and wait.

 

"Nervous?" Looking at his lover, Rick tilts his head to catch those pale eyes. Daryl shakes his head, staring out across the track. He's almost unnaturally still, his shoulders back and his head up as he watches the gates. They see Streak slide into her place without a fuss, her dark head bobbing and her feet kicking up the track beneath her as the filly's anticipation mounts. The air is even more charged today, the excitement building into something that promises to be a deafening crescendo. Rick barely feels his phone buzz against his thigh; digging it out and smiling when he sees Shane’s name on the screen.

 

_Know you're probably busy as fuck man, but good luck. Rootin for her._

 

Rick types out a quick _thank_ _you_ and tucks his phone away again. He rests his hand on Daryl's knee, feeling his lover's faint tremors, and takes a deep breath.

 

For a moment, time slows. It doesn't stop, but Rick watches everything like he's slowed down the speed to a crawl. He sees the last horse get shut in the gate - watches as impatient hooves drag through the air to slam against the ground. It echoes deep into his chest, even though he's too far away to actually hear the sounds. They still ring in his ears like he's right there; snorts and whinnies, dark eyes rolling and ears laying back. One horse tries to rear, but the jockey brings him back down again before he can hurt himself or anyone else.

 

Through it all, Streak is still; she's coiled and ready to strike. On her back, Sasha is leaning forward and holding on as tight as she can. She can probably feel what Rick can see - can hear the ticking of the time and the steady beat of Streak's heart through her legs.

 

The buzzer sounds, the gates fly open, and time speeds up as Rick watches his filly leap out ahead of the colts. It crashes into him like a wave, the multitude of sounds a deafening roar in his ears. He squeezes Daryl's knee, and the trainer's hand drops warmly over his own. They offer strength to each other, a steady stream of energy and affection flowing between them from that point of contact. Daryl croons low in his throat, his pale eyes hooded as he sways forward. Rick moves with him, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on his filly, and they watch her race.

 

Streak is playing games with the colts. She slinks among them, weaving between the lighter bodies and steadily making her way to the outside of the pack. They try to trap her in, well aware of her speed and intelligence, but she's not having it. She puts on a burst of speed to slip out of the group just before a colt can cut her off. Rick can almost imagine the curse the jockey spits - can almost hear Streak's triumphant snort and Sasha's quiet laugh as they go from fifth to third to second. The lead colt is one Streak has run against before - one Rick has heard a lot about. Run On Home is the one that almost bested her once, and it's clear that she hasn't forgotten him. He's a strong runner, and he's only come in second once or twice that Rick can remember.

 

The two powerhouses take turns slipping ahead of one another, the rest of the pack falling behind little by little. Streak is biding her time, Rick can tell. Sasha gives the filly her head, but she doesn't do anything yet. She let's them thunder around the curve, the finish mark drawing closer, and Rick can feel the crowd getting tense as the filly and the colt stay almost neck-and-neck.

 

Just when it seems like maybe Streak has met her match, Rick sees it. He sees the way her head drops just a bit lower, her neck extending until the muscles strain. He sees her hooves blur, and the way the dirt flies and splatters the railings and her opponent with mud. The colt senses his defeat, and he tries to match her speed, but Streak will not be overtaken. She _will_ _not_ lose, and Rick stands quickly, dragging Daryl up with him, as he watches his filly pull a length ahead.

 

Two lengths. Two and a half. Three.

 

Streak sails over the finish line, four lengths ahead of the colt, and Rick's triumphant shout is lost amongst the thunderous roar of the crowd. Daryl is whispering fiercely beside him, the words low and flowing from him in a language Rick still barely understands. It's so beautiful, the quiet rumble of his lover even more present than the howls of the onlookers, and Rick is pulling Daryl into a hug before he can think to stop himself.

 

"She did it," he whispers, overwhelmed by his joy and eagerly breathing in the scent of woods and smoke that clings to Daryl no matter where he goes. Strong arms wrap around him, keeping him close, and Rick presses his face against the trainer's throat as he hugs Daryl even tighter. "She fuckin' did it, Daryl, she's goin' to the _Derby_ , and it's all thanks to you."

 

"Ain't just my doin'," Daryl murmurs into his ear. His lips drag warmly against Rick's cheek, sending shivers of desire coiling through him. They pull apart, and Rick looks at his lover's pale, glittering eyes. He watches them darken, the pupil slowly overtaking the blue, and he knows a celebration is in order. He can feel it in the way Daryl trembles faintly against him. As they turn simultaneously to look down at the track, Sasha turns Streak to face the stands. The jockey is grinning, her teeth bright against the mud splattered over her cheeks. She looks like she's already won the Triple Crown Races, her joy infectious, and the crowd eats it up.

 

"The winner by four lengths, ladies and gentleman: Number 3, Devil's Pride!"

 

Streak rears and paws at the air, screaming her joy and looking as proud and fierce as the wild horses she'd once grazed amongst - tucked away in a hidden valley over the winter, running as free as she could be with horses that never knew the restriction of a saddle. She's as free as them in this instant, even contained in a man-made track. She had never once raced for the pleasure of _man_. Every moment has been for her own satisfaction, because Streak is a horse that loves to run. She cannot be contained, cannot be forced. She has never felt the bite of the crop. She never needed to. All they had to do was let her have the freedom to do what made her happiest, and watch her take it.

 

Side by side, Rick and Daryl make their way to the winner's circle. Sasha meets them there, her boots on the ground again and her smile no less dazzling as she leads Streak with her. The filly looks smug, her head raised high and her dark eyes bright with satisfaction. Rick has never seen such emotion from a horse that wasn't his. Streak has her own personality, and her own flare. She's the daughter of a Devil, through and through, but there's still a hint of her momma's sweetness in her. It just took Daryl to bring it out.

 

As Rick answers questions and laughs about Streak's game of catch-me-if-you-can, his filly hooks her muzzle over his shoulder and pulls him back against her much bigger body. It's a hug he gladly accepts, one hand raising to scratch her silk-covered face as she blows a warm, satisfied snort across his clothes.

 

"She's still undefeated, and now, a contender for the Derby," the reporter says excitedly. She looks windswept, her blue eyes sparkling and her fingers white around the handle of the microphone. "Every race from her has been incredible; she's definitely one of a kind. Do you worry that her determination will be her downfall, though?"

 

It's not the first time someone has asked Rick this. Everyone remembers Devil On Earth. They remember watching him fight to win, even with an injury that made him incapable of doing so. Anyone who sees Streak now can see that same drive in her - she'll do whatever it takes to succeed.

 

"There's a chance," he admits. Streak sneezes, shaking her head right next to his and raising chuckles when dark tendrils of her mane sting his face. "She doesn't think so," he adds with a smile, and everyone laughs harder. "I guess all we can do is wait and see. The Derby will come, and Devil's Pride will be there. The rest is up to her, and fate."

 

Once they're allowed to leave, he and Daryl head back to the stable with Streak. They let Sasha go to change, and take over the task of walking the filly to cool her down. They take off the saddle and the silk - give her freedom when they remove the bridal and mask and let her drink. Daryl wipes her down tenderly while Rick follows with a brush.

 

They don't speak, but they don't need to. They work fluidly, communicating with heated looks and the slightest twitch of their heads. Now that the euphoria of watching Streak win is settling, there's another kind of desire bubbling to the surface. They work their way toward her head, fingers barely brushing when their tasks overlap. Each fleeting touch makes Rick's nerves sing, love and hunger sparking across them. He rumbles low in his throat, and Daryl's answer is a deeper bass croon.

 

No one is paying attention to them. They're secluded enough that when Rick pushes Daryl against the wall, partially shielded by Streak's larger body, his lover doesn't protest. He tips his head back, welcoming anything, and Rick cups his face gently. He rubs his thumbs against Daryl's cheeks, feeling the pickle of the trainer's stubble, and rests their foreheads together.

 

"Could never have done this without you," he breathes against Daryl's waiting mouth. Their lips catch against each other, noses nuzzling, and Rick groans quietly when Daryl's fingers tangle in the curls at his nape and drag him closer.

 

"Can do anythin' ya set yer mind ta, Rick," his lover rumbles. His voice is so deep, so rough from his desire. Rick can see it in his dark eyes, so close to his own he feels like he's falling in and drowning in the emotions Daryl shares so readily with him now. "This would'a been possible without me, _agigau_."

 

"No," Rick shakes his head and presses closer, their words muffled and hidden by the sounds of Streak eating her evening feed. "None of this would have happened without you. She never would have raced, at least not like _this_. My life never would have been this complete. You're so fuckin' incredible, darlin'. More than you'll ever realize. I'll spend every day of our lives tryin' to tell you, though."

 

"Fuckin' Christ, Rick," Daryl hisses. He arches, and Rick closes the last little bit of space between them. Their kiss is like an ending and a beginning at once - the closing of the book of what was and the opening of what is yet to come. The pages are blank, the words not yet written, but there's time. Their entire lives stretch out ahead of them, bright and promising even if the Triple Crown Races do manage to best Streak. She'll give them her all, just like she's done for every other race she's run, and no matter what, Rick will always see her as more than just a horse.

 

Daryl kisses Rick like he's trying to crawl inside of him, blunt nails digging into the rancher's shoulders through his clothes. His tongue is demanding and desperate, his sounds quiet but eager. Rick pins him to the wall and cups the back of his lover's head with one hand. He kisses Daryl like lightning, heat and energy that cracks and unmakes things as quickly as it creates. They kiss like a hurricane, frantic and unstoppable until the eye swirls through them and their passion eases for a moment.

 

"I think I wanna celebrate with somethin' other than drinks tonight," Rick whispers against Daryl's swollen mouth. His lover nods, inadvertently nuzzling closer when he does so. His sigh is soft and sweet, his lips hitching into a crooked smile.

 

"Think I do too," he murmurs. "She's bedded down f'r th' night, Mr. Grimes. Think I'm ready f'r my bed too."

 

" _Our_ bed, Mr. Dixon," Rick replies teasingly. Daryl laughs, the brush of air as gentle as the warm spring breezes tumbling playfully beyond the walls of the stable.

 

"Our _rented_ bed," he agrees. "Get ta go home ta our bed soon enough, cowboy. F'r now, this'll do."

 

They leave together, close enough to touch but determined to behave for the moment even if it's difficult. The future stretches out ahead of them, beckoning the men forward to meet their destinies - whatever they may be. They'll do it together, side by side with the shadow of a wild-hearted filly; her hide as black as night and her hooves rumbling like thunder as she flies across the land with a triumphant scream.

 

Hundreds of miles away, tucked away in a spotless room in a full-time care facility, another book closes as theirs opens. In the dark night, with only a faint light to highlight the thin, gaunt features of the comatose man lying still in his bed, Merle Dixon draws his last, shuddering breath as the machine beside him whines a shrill alarm.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuses for this chapter. It's sad. I am sorry and I can say that I'll try to make it better from here on out, but.... this is sad. ;n;
> 
> Beta'd, of course, by the fantastic katytheinspiredworkaholic. She is a gem and a treasure and I adore her. <3
> 
> ENJOY. Or, y'know, not. ;_;

The call comes before they make it back to the hotel. Daryl fumbles for his phone, his hands already shaking, and Rick knows. He knows before the trainer ever answers - before Daryl's first anxious, "Hello?" makes it past his lips. He knows exactly what the doctor - or the nurse, or  _ whoever _ it is on the other end - is saying to his lover right now.

Rick's heart rips open, pain spilling into his chest like blood splattering against untouched snow - vivid and bright and incapable of being repaired. He's already reaching out to catch the phone when it slips from Daryl's limp fingers. He flips it shut without checking to see if the call is still connected; pulls Daryl against his chest and holds him there with a hand cradling the back of his head. The trainer doesn't fight him, and Rick can't tell if he's in shock, or if he's just completely shut down. Either way, he knows out on the sidewalk - surrounded by tipsy men and women laughing and having fun - is the last place they should be right now.

"C'mon, darlin'," he murmurs gently. Daryl doesn't fight him - doesn't hiss or snarl or cry. The blank, dead look in his eyes is almost  _ worse _ , because Rick can't tell if his lover is even present right now, or if he's miles away. He's thankful for small favors regardless, because he gets them back to the hotel, through the lobby and into the elevator without anyone noticing the state Daryl is in. As the doors start to slide shut, he feels the pain double in his chest and begin to spread; his stomach muscles cramping and his eyes burning as hot, sorrowful tears threaten to roll down his face.

He never knew Merle, but he's heard plenty of stories from Daryl about the man and how he was. Their lives were far from easy, although it sounded like Merle had done his best to protect Daryl after his mother had died. He'd earned a lot of scars doing it, and Daryl's unending loyalty. He'd earned enough love and pride for the trainer to sit at his brother's bedside without fail every week he wasn't at at a race with Rick, either talking or staying silent but always watching over Merle like his presence would be enough to evoke a response from the older Dixon.

Rick would bet money that Merle had been a good man, considering the hand he'd been dealt. Perhaps he'd been a bit too much like their father in terms of his thoughts on training and breaking horses, but he must have loved Daryl very much.

And now he's dead.

The elevator dings, and the door starts to slide open. Rick is ready to usher Daryl out past the people standing on the other side, but the trainer snaps back into some form of clarity at that moment. He stares at the people looking in at them, and then he jams his thumb against the button for the ground floor so hard that Rick is surprised it doesn't break. He ignores the disgruntled cries from the crowd of waiting guests as the doors shut again.

"Daryl?"

"Not here," his lover mutters. He's shaking his head, his eyes bright and feverish. He looks pale and clammy, like he's getting sick or he's on the verge of a breakdown. Now that he's not unnaturally still, he's almost too active. He's twitching beside Rick, ripping open his cuticle with his teeth and switching to his other thumb when the blood starts to run freely. Rick stares at the droplets of red dripping from the ends of his lover's curled, trembling fingers; shaking his head and digging through his pockets to try and find a napkin.

The elevator shudders to a stop, and Daryl is trying to shoulder his way out before the doors are open wide enough. Rick hurries after him, desperate to keep his lover in his sights. He's never seen Daryl like this. He has no idea what to expect, and he knows that he has to keep the trainer close. It's not that he thinks the man will try to hurt himself drastically, but he's winding up for  _ something _ . Rick needs to be there to clean him up and gather the shattered pieces back together once it's over.

Out in the night air, he ignores the crackle of tension that makes his breath sit heavily in his throbbing chest. He focuses more on keeping up with Daryl's ground-eating strides, looking at the side of his lover's face and seeing his broken, manic determination. Daryl is barely blinking, and he hasn't spoken since his quiet, forceful words in the elevator.

They dodge groups of people hopping from bar to bar - cut down side streets that wind farther away from the hotel and the bustle of the city. Daryl seems entirely driven to get out of the neat, clean restrictions of society all together. He's heading toward nature - back to the wilderness he's so at home in, no matter where he finds it; Rick can understand his desperation to get away now. The rolling terrain around Lexington and the sparse trees the land has to offer aren't the same as the thick forests back home, but they're better than the confining air of a hotel room.

Daryl picks a trail that leads them out of Lexington, abandoning it almost as soon as they break away from the last buildings and cutting a path across the grass. Rick follows without knowing what else to do, letting Daryl lead them to wherever the trainer feels he needs to be in order to grieve. Night is crawling across the sky, chasing away their visibility, but Daryl navigates his way toward the trees like he knows exactly where he's going.

It's not a proper forest, not like they're used to, but it's the best they can get for now, and it's set far enough away from the road that no one should feel compelled to venture their way. Rick shrugs out of his jacket and lays it over his arm, ignoring the dampness of his dark shirt as sweat makes it cling to his back. He loosens his tie and feels cool air chase away the heat around his collar. Hiking in a suit is not the best idea, but given the circumstances Rick figures he can handle a little discomfort. He has something much more important to focus on.

Daryl finally stops and rests his forehead against the trunk of a sturdy oak, breathing harshly while Rick waits. He feels like he's going to be sick, his abdomen cramping and his stomach twisting into heavy knots. He doesn't know when he started crying, but his muted pain is nothing compared to the horrible, ragged keen that finally tears itself from Daryl's chest. Rick isn't expecting it, and he jumps slightly before taking a step forward. Daryl's next sound is even more awful; something broken and jagged that spills from him like it ripped his throat apart on the way out. It's hoarse and low, more akin to a pained bark or an agonized howl - Rick can't decide which is worse. Either way, he tries to reach out and lay his hand on Daryl's shoulder, but his lover sinks to the ground before he can.

Kneeling with him, Rick touches the silky back of Daryl's vest, offering a point of contact and feeling the tremble of the muscles beneath his fingertips. He watches with blurry eyes as Daryl doubles over and hugs himself, coughing out sobs that echo through the small copse of trees and chase away the nocturnal creatures that have begun to stir. The feeling of Rick's throat trying to collapse in on itself steals his ability to speak, and maybe that's for the better right now.

No pretty, soothing words can heal this damage. No low croon or declarations can take away the agony ripping Daryl apart all the way down to his atoms. Rick can't say a damn thing that will make this okay, so he shuffles closer on his knees and hugs Daryl instead. His lover's back fits against his chest, the trainer's body shaking with the force of his sobs. All Rick can do is stroke through the man's dark hair, his tears soaking into the back of Daryl's vest while his lover's anguish drips from his cheeks to splash against the roots of the tree.

_ I'm so fuckin' sorry, darlin' _ , he thinks, his pain a pale shadow compared to Daryl's. _ I'd give anything to take this from you if I could. _

Rick has seen men cave under the pressure of being questioned by cops and lawyers. He's seen good men and women crack under the stress of a demanding job and the dangers of a life with a gun on their hip. He's seen horses give up, trainers break down, and owners throw in the towel. He's seen the full spectrum of emotions from joy to misery, but he's never seen a heart break quite the way Daryl's is right now. The body he's wrapped around is wracked with guilt and a pain he can't even begin to comprehend. He may have felt like he lost his family when he lost Shane and Lori, but they weren't completely gone. They still breathed, and laughed, and lived - they just did it without him.

Rick doesn't know what else to do. Daryl's sobs have barely tapered off, his agony still so gutting that Rick bites back an ugly sob of his own as he rocks them slowly back and forth.

"I'm here, sweetheart, I've got you," he whispers raggedy. Pressing a kiss behind Daryl's ear, he nuzzles the warm skin and breathes in the musk of nature and horses and the bitter tinge of smoke. "Let it all out, Daryl. I've got you. I won't let you drown, sweetheart."

"Rick," Daryl sobs. His torn, blunt nails dig into the rancher's forearms, his hands gripping so tightly that Rick wonders if there will be bruises. He won't care if there is - whatever helps Daryl right now is all that matters to him.

"I know, darlin', I know. I'm here."

Daryl shudders, his body convulsing, and he doubles over again. Rick hears him gag and pulls his hair out of the way just in time for the first wave of vomit that splatters against the grass and the roots of the tree. Crooning quietly against one clammy ear, Rick rests a hand directly over Daryl's heart and keeps his hair pulled back with the other as he soothes his lover through the episode. The trainer is shaking like a leaf against him, his sobs dying down once he's able to suck in fresh air. Rick hears him spit the last of the bitter bile to the side and moves them away from the spot. Daryl makes a quiet, broken sound of confusion at the loss of contact, but Rick is carefully pulling him against his chest before his lover's churning mind can jump to conclusions.

Leaning back against the trunk of a different tree, Rick keeps Daryl's back against his chest; his lover's head lolling tiredly on the rancher's shoulder and the man's limp body cradled in the v of Rick's legs. Rick wraps an arm around the younger man's ribs and feels Daryl's trembling fingers sketch random patterns against his warm skin.

"Don't stay in the dark too long," he whispers against his lover's sweaty temple. Daryl's huff of laughter is hoarse and weak, but Rick can imagine the shaky smile trying to hitch up the corners of those thin, chapped lips. "Otherwise you forget to look for the sun."

"Yeah?" Daryl croaks. He tilts his head just enough for Rick to see one pale, watery eye. Reaching up, he wipes away the last of the tears tenderly and kisses the crinkled corner of the left eye. Daryl hums low in his throat, leaning back against Rick a little harder and settling in. He's still shaking, his body jerking with the sobs still tumbling around in his chest. "You gonna lead me back from this'un?"

"I'll do whatever it takes, my wild sky," Rick swears fervently. "Whatever you need me to be."

"Ain't ever needed ya ta be a damn thing but what ya are." Coughing, Daryl hisses through clenched teeth and squeezes his eyes shut. Rick knows all too well how much this kind of anguish hurts. Afterwards, you feel hollow and sore. Your throat hurts and your chest aches - your ribs too, as your breathing settles into something closer to normal and your lungs slowly stop burning. If he'd have had a little more warning, he would have brought along a water bottle for his exhausted lover once the initial storm was over. As it is, there's not much he can do until they're back in civilization again.

"Think you can stand?" he murmurs. He's not stupid enough to ask if Daryl is okay - he doesn't know a single person who would be smiling and cheerful after learning about the death of someone they were so close to. Merle may have been in a coma, but he was still alive - still Daryl's brother, even though the trainer knew he was never going to wake up again. He'd still held onto that small sliver of hope, guarding it vehemently and waiting for that sputtering flicker of light to grow into something bigger.

It never had. And now, it never would.

After a moment, Daryl nods. "Yeah," he grunts. "Ain't that pathetic." There might have been a derisive sneer in the words if his lover wasn't so worn out. Or maybe it would have been playfully cocky; those pale eyes glittering with a challenge that sang to Rick on a primal, instinctive level. As it is, he just sounds as exhausted as he looks, his features going slack and his head rolling forward like he doesn't have the strength to hold it up. Rick waits for him to get up, and Daryl sways for a moment before leaning against his side. He doesn't say anything; wraps an arm around the trainer's waist and feels one drape heavily across his shoulders. His lover's head winds up tucked against his jaw, and Rick presses a gentle kiss to the crown of his head.

"C'mon," he says quietly. "Let's get you back to the hotel. Bet it'll feel at least a little better to lay in a bed rather than on the ground."

"Yer sayin' that ta a guy that slept on th' ground f'r almost three years, asshole," his lover huffs quietly. "Li'l bit'a hardness never did me no wrong."

"I'll remember that," Rick chuckles. It takes Daryl a moment to get the joke - when he does, he snorts and knocks his head against Rick's shoulder. It hurts, but not badly. He still swears softly and jerks his shoulder up in retaliation.

"Asshole," Daryl hisses. Rick smiles.

"Drama queen," he retorts playfully.

"Fuck you." Daryl already sounds a little more like himself, though the heavy tiredness wrapped around him like an oppressive blanket is going to take time to shake loose. Rick will do anything he can to help. Whatever he needs to do to get those pale blue eyes to shine brightly again, he'll do it.

His lover presses a kiss just under his ear, like he knows Rick's thoughts just as well as his own. Together, wrapped around one another and offering support like the banks cradling a winding stream, they head back into the city.

\--

Daryl's asleep before the balcony door closes behind Rick. He'd hardly been coherent when they made it back to the room; he'd tumbled into bed and barely reacted when the rancher had carefully wiped his face and throat clean with a warm, damp cloth he'd grabbed from the bathroom. He'd already been fading while Rick had gotten him out of his suit and into something he could sleep in comfortably. Their good-night kiss had been more of an uncoordinated nuzzle, Daryl's nose dragging across his cheek as his lover had snuffled sleepily.

Looking out across the city from his vantage point, Rick pulls out his phone and dials a number that hasn't changed in over twenty years - one he hasn't forgotten even seven years later.

"Congrats, man!" Shane says cheerfully instead of hello. "Looks like you're goin' to the Derby with that hellish filly of yours after all."

Rick doesn't respond for a moment, just taking a few breaths to soak in Shane’s almost addictive cheerfulness. For the first time in a long time, he wishes the man was standing at his side again; that they were still brothers in all but blood, able to share any secret and dispel any demons that might plague the other half of their soul.

"Rick?" Shane asks. There's a creak and a rustle, both sounding almost impossibly loud through low-quality phone speakers and the crackling static of a long-distance connection. Rick hears the heavy thump of Shane setting down his drink, the noise almost immediately followed by quiet, gentle words. "What happened, Rick?"

"Daryl..." Trailing off, Rick swallows thickly and feels his throat click. He shouldn't have any tears left in him, but he can feel his eyes burning and his throat swelling closed as the emotions batter at him relentlessly; rising up and demanding Rick's attention now that he's not focused on his lover's shattering heart.

Shane’s words are sharpened by his concern. "What about Daryl? Is he okay? C'mon, Rick, give me something to go off of here. You guys alright?"

"Merle... his brother died. Not long after the race, I guess. Got the call when... when we were headin' back to the hotel."

Rick's voice is thick from sorrow, garbled from the hot tears slowly leaking down his face. He wipes them away stubbornly but more trickle free despite his best attempts. "God, Shane, he's so devastated," he chokes out.

"Jesus, man, I'm so sorry." Shane’s voice is tight, like he's trying to hold back his own instinctive response to seeing - or hearing - someone in pain. He was never as good with his words as Rick, but he always seemed to know exactly what to say between just the two of them. He could make Rick laugh when he was seconds away from crying, or talk him back from the brink of anger when they were dealing with a case where justice just wasn't enough. Shane could do it even when he was just as ready to take the law into his own hands. He shifts again, and Rick listens to him getting up and moving through the house - the creak of the door and the muted sounds of cicadas as he steps out into his back yard.

"He holdin' up okay?"

"No," Rick admits. He turns to rest back against the balcony railing so he can look into the room and see Daryl. His lover is sleeping fitfully, his muscles twitching and the sheen of tears on his face telling enough for Rick to know his dreams are far from peaceful. The moonlight spilling into the room makes the wetness on his cheeks seem so much more innocent than it really is.

"Merle Dixon, man. Never would've thought. I always assumed that asshole would live forever."

"You knew him?" Rick frowns as he watches Daryl wake up long enough to lift his head. The trainer looks around until he sees Rick, who is already reaching for the door to head back inside; ready to tell Shane a quick goodbye despite his curiosity if his lover needs comfort. When Daryl finally sees him, he lays his head back down and closes his eyes; appearing a little more relaxed as he slips back into slumber with a little more peace than he'd had when he'd woken up.

"Met him a few times, when I was arresting his ass for some drunk and disorderlies. Couple of times for bar fights. Charming guy. I heard what had happened with the horse. Never would have thought he was Daryl's brother. Damn, man. I guess it is a small world after all."

Tilting his head back, Rick looks up at the cloudless night sky. His eyes trace over stars and constellations, most of them still unknown to him. He recognizes a few patterns and their stories thanks to Daryl; the trainer has pointed them out numerous times, his fingers tracing their shapes as the tales of brave men and monstrous beasts filled in Rick's ears - spoken in a low, rough drawl tinged with something sweet and wistful.

"Talk to me, Rick, c'mon," Shane urges. "What're you thinking about? I can hear your brain from my back porch, and Kentucky is a long way away."

Despite himself, Rick chuckles. He stops fighting the tears and lets them come on their own, his scar aching from the harshness of his breathing while his ribs spasm. He presses his wrist to his mouth and lets out a strangled sob, and Shane hums quietly as he lets Rick fall apart and piece himself back together again.

"It hurts, Shane," he whispers, and even to his own ears he sounds lost. "I never knew Merle, but god, Daryl loved him so much."

"You're hurting right along with him," Shane says, like it's that easy. And maybe it is, because after everything he's shared with his lover, Rick shouldn't be surprised to share one more thing. "You hurt for him, Rick, because you love him. You never want anything to take that spark from his eyes."

"I don't," Rick agrees. "He's so bright, Shane. He's so goddamn beautiful; so proud and loyal to those he considers family. He's so free and wild... You remember those woods we always ran around in when we were kids?"

"Shit, yeah. I remember. Used to come home covered in ticks, briars all tangled in my hair. Remember mom shaving my head so she didn't have to deal with it anymore?"

Rick huffs quietly, still able to recall the surly glare on seven-year-old Shane Walsh's face when he'd met Rick the next day and Rick had burst into laughter at the sight of his best friend's buzzed hair.

"You were so mad," he snorts. "You shoved me into the swamp for laughin' at you. I smelled like shit and rot for days."

"You deserved it for makin' fun of me," Shane retorts. Rick can hear the smile in his voice, and something lightens in his heart. He hadn't even realized how heavily that tucked-away darkness had weighed on him until it was uncurling and slipping away. He takes a deep breath, and it feels fresh and sweet in his lungs.

"What happened to us?" he whispers. Closing his eyes, he listens to a cricket sing nearby - the sounds of people laughing and cars driving by on the street below filtering up to him and blunting the relaxing sounds of nature. It's easy to forget how loud the world really is when he's at home. The ranch is so far out in the country that it's never an issue. The insects lull him to sleep, their melody mixing with Daryl's soft breathing when his lover sleeps beside him in their bed at home. When they're anywhere else, Rick can never find the peace he feels so easily there, where the beauty of Georgia grows wild and free all around them.

"We grew up," Shane sighs quietly, sounding as tired and weary as Rick feels. "We've done shit we're not proud of. That kind of darkness... it changes people. Changed me. Changed you, too. Though that was mostly my doin', and I know it."

"Shane," Rick murmurs. "You're a good man. No matter what, that has never changed."

"Good men don't do what I did, Rick." Shane’s laugh is sharp and bitter. "A good man doesn't abandon their best friend - their  _ brother _ \- when he needs their support the most. I wasn't there for you, and I should have been, but I was so fuckin'  _ selfish _ ."

"Making mistakes doesn't make you a bad person," Rick says quietly, with an unwavering force that makes Shane breathe in harshly and  _ listen _ . "It's what you do afterward, whether it's immediately or somewhere down the road, to fix things.  _ That _ 's what determines the kind of man you are. And Shane...  _ brother _ . That's how I know you're a good man."

There's a moment of silence before Shane makes a quiet, strangled sound. "Hell, Rick, I was supposed to be the one cheerin' you up." His next laugh is wet, and Rick smiles through his own tears. It feels so good to talk to Shane - the man who was his best friend and brother for so long - without any animosity between them. It feels good to remember the years of laughter and friendship they shared without anything to taint the memories.

"What about the woods where we grew up?" Shane finally asks after several peaceful moments of companionable silence. Rick had almost forgotten mentioning them, and he smiles at Shane’s gentle prompting.

"They were so overgrown and wild, but still so incredible at the same time. We'd get lost in them for hours and never even think to worry about it, because they were just like home. Hell, you shot your first buck there."

"Four-pointer," Shane agrees. "Big sunnuva bitch. Dad was so proud."

"Daryl's just like those woods for me." Turning away from the door, Rick leans his hip against the balcony railing and looks toward Keeneland. At night, the racetrack looks quiet, but it hums with eagerness. It's something safe and tamed that waits for the the thunder of hoofbeats and the snort of beasts running for the joy and freedom to come alive and offer a small glimpse of that wildness.

"That's some sappy shit right there, man, I'm not gonna lie."

"It's true," Rick chuckles. "He's become so much like home. He's wild, just like those woods, but when I'm with him, I'm safe. I'll never get lost."

"Yeah, I can understand that," Shane agrees quietly. Rick knows he's thinking about Lori, who's probably asleep and waiting for Shane to join her - for his presence to sink into her dreams and soothe her with his closeness. Thinking about it doesn't make Rick hurt. He doesn't feel angry or jealous, because when it comes down to it, he's happy for them. He's truly happy that they have each other, and that they love each other. He and Lori were never going to work out. At least with Shane, he knows she'll be taken care of. At least with her, Rick knows his brother can find the happiness he deserves.

"I miss you, Shane," he says with a smile. "It's good to hear your voice."

"I miss you too, Rick. God, man, I'm so sorry it all went down the way it did. I'd give anything to go back and fix it."

"Can't change the past; that's already set in stone. We  _ can _ wish for a better future though, and hope fate is kind to us."

"Think it will be?" Shane asks. Rick can hear the hope that's heavy in his words. It's just as strong in Rick, and he knows that has to mean something, fate or no.

"I think it already is."

They talk a little longer before saying their goodnights. Rick looks at his phone for a while afterwards, smiling and feeling it cool down in his palm. It's the first time he's actually talked to Shane since he and Lori showed up at the ranch. They've texted sporadically, but Rick hadn't been ready to take that final step. He'd been waiting - for what, he hadn't known. Now that he's had time - now that he's healed and there's nothing left but fondness for two people who had been such a prevalent part of his life for so long - Rick realizes that he was waiting for them to heal as well. And from the way Shane had sounded so relaxed and  _ happy _ , Rick is glad he did.

Slipping back inside, he plugs his phone into the charger and strips out of his wrinkled suit. He pulls on a pair of boxers and a threadbare shirt and crawls into bed beside his lover; smiling when Daryl rolls over in his sleep and presses closer with a soft, sweet sigh. Rick traces the smooth, unfurrowed skin of Daryl's forehead before kissing his temple. "I love you," he whispers with so much tenderness it overflows from him and fills the room. Pressing another kiss to one sleep-warm cheek, he rests his head on the pillow, the trainer's head tucked under his chin, and lets the man's slow, easy breathing lead him down into his own dreams.

\--

Daryl wasn't lying - the valley in spring is so beautiful it steals Rick's breath away on playful, tumbling winds. The bowl of it had been so barren before, everything resting for the winter. Now it's a sprawling blanket of wildflowers; the trees heavy with green leaves that bend the branches. They shake and dance in the sunlight as squirrels leap through them, the critters chattering and sounding the alarm as the men and their mounts wind their way down the hill and into the fields. Rick breathes in deeply, smelling the sweet chaos of flowers and life. Like the last time, the energy that saturates every inch of this amazing place buzzes against his skin. There's more of him visible now, with winter's harsh cold chased away by the warmth of new life. The hair down his arms stands on end as he feels the power of the valley sink into his bones, finding the home it had left when he and Daryl were forced to depart from this untamed wilderness.

Beside him, Daryl looks more relaxed than he has in days - and a lot more tired. They barely wasted any time between getting back home and going to pick up Merle's ashes. Daryl had requested that his brother be cremated, and the care facility had complied while they were on their way home.

_ Merle hated tight spots _ , he'd muttered after hanging up the phone the day after the race.  _ Don' even want him in th' urn. Want him free, like he deserves. _

As soon as they'd come back from picking up the ashes, Rick had saddled Badger and Lays. Streak had been furious at being left behind, but Rick wanted her to have a chance to rest before they started preparing her for the Derby. Lays had been beyond eager to get off the farm, and even now Rick can feel her vibrating with excitement as she looks around this new place they've brought her to. He doesn't doubt that she'll have her muzzle buried in the calf-high grasses that covers the field as soon as she's free; eating clover and sweet grass and sighing happily. Badger snorts when they reach the stream, coming to a stop without prompting and waiting for Daryl to swing out of the saddle and start removing his tack. Rick follows suit, smiling at the lack of pain this time now that he's had months to build up the strength in his leg.

"Told ya," Daryl murmurs once the horses are turned loose. He slides up beside Rick, his pale eyes still a little dim but his smile gentle and sincere as they work side by side to put up the tent. It's the same one they had last time, but Daryl has taken the furs out of the inside to help them stay cooler. It's more than big enough for the both of them - it could easily fit a third body if they ever decided to bring Buck along.

"Knew you weren't lying," Rick chuckles as he pushes the stakes into the ground to keep the tent in place. Daryl ties back the door flap to let the fresh air filter in, clearing out the last of the staleness from it being packed away. His lover pulls his hair back into a short ponytail, and Rick swallows heavily at the way the trainer's shorter bangs kiss the line of his jaw and curl against his tanned cheeks. Daryl doesn't even seem to notice, too busy filling buckets with cold, crisp water from the mountain-fed stream to pay attention to the way Rick's eyes hungrily follow his every move.

Rather than staring until Daryl turns around and finally notices, Rick takes it upon himself to move their duffle bags into the tent and lay down the sleeping mats and the blankets. There's a separate duffle just for Merle's urn, and he handles that one with care even though it's sealed well. Still, he doesn't want anything to happen to it, so he sets it just inside the tent and busies himself with getting everything else ready.

Daryl ducks inside just as Rick is throwing the pillows toward the end closest to the stream. He's shirtless, his chest wet and droplets of water dripping from his dark hair. He looks like he dunked his head in the stream, and Rick licks his lips unconsciously as he follows the path of one droplet as it rolls down Daryl's broad shoulder and catches against a pebbled nipple.

"Feels nice," Daryl comments calmly, like he's not looking at Rick with eyes that are brighter than they've been in days - pale blue slowly getting darker as his pupils expand and his cheeks gain a faint rosy tint. "Should give it a try."

"I will," Rick nods. He stands slowly, taking in Daryl's strong, wide chest and his narrow hips without any sort of fabric to get in the way. "After," he adds quietly, his voice dipping low and turning rough as desire sings in his blood. Daryl shudders, biting his lip, and Rick can't take it anymore. He grabs one strong, solid forearm and drags his lover close until Daryl moans into his mouth from the sensation of Rick's shirtfront scraping and catching against his sensitive chest.

"Rick," he whispers, pleading for contact - for hot kisses and deep moans and the sweat and release smearing over their skin as they rock together and cool down in the aftermath. And Rick - who has never been able to say no to his lover when Daryl asks the best way he knows how - kisses that eager, starving mouth and devours Daryl's gasps like he's been starving too and his lover is a feast laid out just for him.

They tumble back amongst the blankets, rucking up the neat sheets and dragging their nails against skin and fabric alike as they cling to each other and roll their hips. Daryl rips his mouth free to pant raggedly, his eyes closed tightly and his desperation one of the most beautiful sights Rick has ever seen. He admires the warm sunlight that paints across Daryl's chest and hips as he drags the trainer's pants and boxers down. Daryl arches to help him, his bare feet kicking the blankets away as he searches for a way to brace himself. Rick admires his shameless desire, loving how wild and unhindered Daryl has become in these private, intimate moments between them. The months have done a lot to boost his confidence; Daryl cracks open heavy eyes to look at him,  _ need _ and  _ love _ so strong in those darkened irises that Rick's breath punches from his lungs in a quick gasp. Some of this is his desperation to hold onto something, to fill the empty place in his soul where Merle used to be. The rest of it is raw, unbridled desire, and Rick plans to see him through both.

"Any day now, cowboy," his lover rumbles. The energy of the valley buzzes between them, slipping between Daryl's spread legs along with Rick's fingers. He watches Daryl fist the blankets and fall apart, his head thrown back and the line of his sweat-damp throat bared for the welcome press of Rick's blunt, careful teeth.

"I love you so much, my wild sky," he murmurs against the wet skin. His fingers crook, and Daryl shudders out a sound that's caught between a stifled whine and a wanton moan.

"Rick -  _ agigau _ -" He hisses through clenched teeth. Rick can't stand to make him wait, and he groans as he wraps a hand around himself and guides his own way into the relaxed heat of Daryl's welcoming body.

"So beautiful," he whispers. Daryl's legs wrap around him, his heels digging into the small of Rick's back. His arms wrap around the rancher's neck, keeping him close, and they kiss as their bodies roll together and their pleasures mingle into a singular wave that crashes over them with increasing force.

"I love you, Daryl," Rick whispers again. Their kisses range from frantic and uncoordinated to slow and deep - deep enough to sear themselves into each other in ways that can never be undone. Their energies shift and twine, Rick can  _ feel _ it happening, and Daryl arches against him with a quiet cry. Rick drinks down the sound like water, groaning as their stomachs become wet and Daryl's body demands the devotions Rick will never deny him. They shudder to the end of it together, their hair sticking to their faces from sweat; the ponytail lost somewhere amongst the sheets and leaving Daryl's hair free to fan across the pillows. It's warm in the valley,  _ hot _ in the tent, but they refuse to separate.

Daryl combs his long fingers through Rick's curls, cradling his head and keeping him close - as if the rancher would rather be anywhere else than where he is right now.

"My heart ta shelter you," he murmurs with a small, crooked smile. "My soul t’ fly with yers, an’ m’ strength t’ ground ya when ya need it. All of these I give ta you, Rick, an’ with ‘em my love."

"You could just say 'I love you too'," Rick chuckles quietly, even though he loves every single one of the trainer's heartfelt declarations. Still smiling, he rolls them so he's laying on his back and Daryl's head is on his chest; his cheek flat against Rick's pectoral while he listens to the rancher's heartbeat. As their bodies cool and the sweat dries, Rick plays with Daryl's soft, thick hair. "Thank you for all you've ever done, Daryl. You're the best thing that ever happened to me."

"Sure as fuck th’ most interesting," his lover chuckles as he turns slightly. With his head resting in the crook of Rick's arm, Daryl reaches up to grab his hand and intertwine their fingers. He's humming quietly, the energy of the valley vibrating along with the low, rumbling cadence of the melody. Rick hums along after a moment, closing his eyes and basking in the peace and serenity of this magical place.

Eventually, he's roused from his relaxation when Daryl moves against him. Cracking open one eye, Rick meets pale blue that sparkles with mischief. His interest piqued, he sits up and watches as Daryl crawls out of the tent without bothering to get redressed and stands in the sunlight. Rick admires him, his simmering arousal starting to boil again as he takes in the wild beauty of the man watching him in return.

"Comin'?" Daryl asks with a lopsided smirk, and Rick doesn't need any more invitation than that. He slips out into the warm air to join his lover; enjoying the breeze that kisses over his naked flesh and tilting his head back to let the sun beat down on his face. He hears the grass swish as Daryl steps closer, the long blades tickling their calves and making Rick shiver from the combination of sensations.

"Catch me," Daryl rumbles against his throat. The vibrations sink into Rick's skin, erupting like a wildfire that sears along his nerves. He moves with the speed of a snake, tackling Daryl before his lover can get more than a few feet away. They tumble into the thick, lush grasses, laughing between their kisses as their bodies move together in a sensual dance. The sun warms Rick's shoulders, stinging his exposed skin in a way that promises to burn before too long. He ignores it, far more interested in the vision sprawled below him. Daryl's hair is an unkempt mess fanned out against the dark green stalks; his blue eyes dark with desire and his swollen mouth open slightly as he stares up at Rick and waits.

"Gonna stare all day long, cowboy?" he finally rasps, his lips crooking up into another smirk that Rick claims with enough heat to make the younger man shudder and moan. Daryl's legs spread, his spine bowing in a beautiful curve as he arches against Rick. The rancher hooks a hand behind one of the man's knees, fingers sliding down the back of a strong, muscled thigh until he's teasing closer to where Daryl is still ready for him.

"Don't fuckin' make me wait, Rick," his lover growls into his mouth, so Rick doesn't. He pulls Daryl closer, angling them just right, and slides forward until the younger man throws his head back with a moan that echoes across the entire valley. Neither horse reacts, although several birds startle and take flight, scolding the two men who come together again and again. Their passion is as strong as the mountain that casts a protective shadow over the valley; as swift and determined as the water that flows beside them. Daryl is as magical as the energies that welcome them both - his birthright and his legacy in one. That he's chosen to share it with Rick means more to the rancher than he can ever put into words. He does his best to kiss his devotion across his lover's sweaty throat and collarbones, leaving loving marks that bloom over Daryl's tanned skin like flowers unfurling to grace the world with their beauty.

Daryl leaves matching marks on Rick's shoulders, sinking blunt teeth into his skin and groaning as his body shakes apart for Rick to piece him back together - writhing and drawing Rick's release from his shivering bones; leaving a space so his lover can slip through the cracks and sink so deeply into Rick that not even death will erase his presence. Their bodies shudder, and Rick swears he can feel their souls reaching for each other and becoming one singular entity, if only for a moment.

Afterward, they pant and gather strength back into their weak, trembling limbs. Rick has never had sex that felt like so much  _ more _ . Sweat drips from his curls, rolling down his nose and hanging from the tip until Daryl's warm, wicked tongue licks the droplets away. The trainer looks so satisfied, his blue eyes hazy and content as he rests his head back against the thick, soft grasses and just  _ looks _ at Rick.

"Anyone ever tell ya yer too fuckin' gorgeous for words?" he chuckles with a fond shake of his head. His fingers comb through Rick's unruly hair, pushing it back from his face so there's no barriers between them.

"You may have, once or twice," Rick quips with a loving grin. Daryl snorts and drags him down into a kiss, their noses bumping a little too harshly and their laughter soft as the swaying grass tickles their skin. When they pull apart, Rick's lips tingling from the feeling of Daryl's energy buzzing over them, he smiles down at his lover before standing and holding a hand out to help the man up as well.

They wash off in the stream, the water cold enough to make them hurry and refreshing enough to keep them alert. The sun dries them better than any towel could, both of them stretched out on the bank of the stream. Rick's laying on his side, walking his fingers across Daryl's stomach; feeling the bumps and ridges of his abdominal muscles and the sharp arches of his hips. His skin is warm beneath Rick's palm, supple and on display - inviting him to look his fill while Daryl watches with a lazy smile and hooded eyes.

"C'mon," he says eventually, his voice low and echoing faintly in a way Rick has become familiar with in the year they've known one another.

God, has it really been a year since the trainer showed up in his office, wild and wary and seeming ready to bite faster than make friends? So much has happened between then and now, and Rick doubts it would have happened half as fast if their mutual love for horses hadn't been the thing that brought them together. If Rick hadn't found his way into the world of thoroughbred racing - if Daryl had been a little more jaded and bitter after his father's abuse - they might never have met at all. If Rick hadn't decided to take on the challenge of a filly ill-tempered enough to be as wild as the mustangs that roam free across the States, their paths never would have crossed. He would never have gotten to know the incredible man that stands before him now, cloaked in quiet confidence and full of so much love Rick can almost see it seeping into the air around him.

They dress in silence, the lighthearted air that had carried them through the day settling into something far more somber. Daryl only drags on his jeans, leaving his torso bare for the ember-orange glow of the setting sun. The light turns him into something wild, something Rick finds himself thinking of as ethereal and almost inhuman. The air almost seems charged, like the valley knows what's about to happen and is preparing for it.

"Build up th' fire?" Daryl asks softly. Rick nods and hunts for kindling and thick branches along the edge of the forest; carries the bundles back in his arms and ignores how the dry, rough bark scratches his bare chest. He builds their modest fire into something almost three times larger than it was. The heat it throws off makes both of them sweat, the bonfire crackling and popping as it eats through the sacrificed wood and grows a little larger. Tongues of flame dance merrily; showers of sparks spitting out toward the darkening sky and turning their section of the stream into liquid fire.

Daryl brings Merle's urn out of the tent, and Rick takes a deep breath. His lover looks mesmerizing, caught between humanity and something so much different that pours from his throat in the form of a resonating song. There are no words this time, just a haunting tune that fills the bowl of the valley. Rick watches silently as Daryl walks away from the fire with his brother's ashes. He doesn't join in this time, because this ceremony isn't for him. He keeps the fire going and lends Daryl his strength and support, but no answering melody bubbles from him like a newborn spring.

Daryl begins to walk in a spiral that takes him farther and farther away from the fire. He crosses the stream again and again, barely taking a breath from what Rick can see. The energies hum along with him, whining across Rick's exposed skin and making him shiver. Tears burn his eyes - he can see the sheen of them on Daryl's cheeks as his lover dips his hand into the urn and brings out a handful of ashes.

Lays and Badger watch with eyes that reflect the flames, silent and still as statues. Rick sees forms flickering through the trees near the corner of the valley that's the most open, and he finds himself unsurprised when the wild herd slips out of the reaching shadows of the forest. They stand silent vigil as Daryl scatters Merle's ashes one handful at a time, his deep, mournful song dying away until the only sound is his bare feet through the grass and the crackle and pop of the fire.

When almost all of Daryl's forearm fits into the urn, Rick watches him turn it upside down and spin quickly to scatter the last of the contents. Rick's nose burns from the smell of smoke, his face tight from the heat of the fire. When he finally turns his gaze to it, he imagines he can see the proud form of a wolf standing in the center of the flames. It morphs into a running horse, and then the powerful beauty of an eagle that soars toward the heavens in an explosion of sparks.

"I'm gonna miss ya, Merle," Daryl rasps as soon as he's beside Rick again. They stare into the fire together, and the rancher is wondering what his lover sees when the stallion that leads the herd suddenly whinnies. They turn in time to watch him rear up, his dark hooves cutting through the air, and they look past him to try and spot whatever has riled him so badly.

Along the forest, standing tall and serene in the last of the dying orange sunset, is a wolf. Rick feels his mouth open slightly, his eyes widening as he takes it in. It's a timber wolf, it's thick coat painted in shades of grey and brown. When it sees them looking, it lopes along the edge of the forest toward them, eating up the distance with its long legs. Rick can't hear the sound of its massive paws hitting the ground, but he doesn't think much of it. He's too awed by the beauty of the creature, something he's never seen outside of a zoo appearing in front of them like Daryl's misery had summoned it.

When the wolf gets close enough for Rick to see its golden eyes staring at them, Daryl makes a noise that comes out like a strangled whine. The wolf's ears flick back, it's head dipping, and then it turns and trots into the woods, vanishing almost as quickly as it had appeared.

"G'bye, Merle," the trainer whispers, and Rick closes his eyes as his tears cut paths down his face. Daryl's sobs are quiet, but he's not fighting them - not like he had in Lexington. This grief is almost more painful to hear because of it, and Rick finally pulls his lover's unresisting body into his arms. They stand beside the raging fire with their foreheads pressed together, their tears mingling as they piece each other back together again.

"He's runnin' free forever now," Rick murmurs. Daryl's laugh is wet and rough.

"All th' ladies an' all th' booze," he agrees with a wry twist of his lips. "At least th' fucker let me know he wasn' sufferin' no more."

"Think the wolf was him, then?" Rick wipes Daryl's tears away with his thumbs, and his lover gives him a tiny, grateful smile.

"Know it was. Ain't no wolves gettin' that close ta people. Hell, ain't no wolves in Georgia, period."

That's true. Now that he thinks about it, it would explain why he didn't hear the wolf making a sound as it moved toward them. It hadn't even been panting. It must mean something, that Merle chose to say goodbye this way - to manifest in a way that Daryl would understand, even if Rick didn't.

Daryl presses a soft, sweet kiss against his cheek. Rick tilts his lover's face up to kiss him properly, and they listen to the sound of the herd welcoming Badger and greeting Lays. The valley settles as night swallows the last traces of light, nothing but the light of the moon and billions of stars giving any visibility beyond the circle of firelight. Daryl's eyes are closed, so he doesn't see the thistle seed that the winds carry into view. Rick almost doesn't see it either, until it dances right in front of his face. It's almost instinctual to reach out and grab it; to hold it pinched between his thumb and index finger and watch the long, thin tendrils wave like it's beckoning to him.

_ If it's possible, let him be at peace _ , he thinks as he looks at the wishy and lifts it a little higher.  _ Let him rest, and help us heal - and maybe we can see him again some day. That's my wish. _

He sends the thistle seed on its way with a gentle exhale, watching it spin wildly out of reach before it's caught by another stream of wind and lifted even higher. Daryl shifts against him, cracking open his eyes, and Rick smiles as he runs his fingers through his lover's thick, soft hair.

"C'mon, my wild sky," he murmurs. "Let's go to bed."

"I love ya, Rick," Daryl whispers. He kisses the corner of the rancher's mouth and leaves his lips there, breathing slowly.

"I love you too, Daryl," Rick says with a smile his lover feels more than he sees. "Always, and in all ways."

The horses graze, and a blanket of peace and contentment settles over the valley as the two men crawl into their tent and curl up together to sleep. Daryl's head rests on Rick's chest, the steady thump of the rancher's heartbeat relaxing him while Rick's palm feels the beat of Daryl's heart where it rests between his shoulder blades.

Out in the forest, beyond the edge of the valley, the Dixon house collapses it on itself a little more under the determination of nature while the haunting screech of an owl echoes through the trees.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! Sorry for the delay. I blame it on the holidays, haha. So, although it's late - here's what many of you have been ~~threatening~~ asking me for! :D
> 
> Beta'd, of course, by the fantastic katytheinspiredworkaholic, who was out in the boonies with no internet service trying to get this to me. Such a sweet angel. <3
> 
> BEHOLD

Something changes after they give Merle his sendoff. Daryl seems settled in a way he hasn't been since before his brother's death. There had been a subtle tension in him - something Rick hadn't noticed until it was gone. Now, it's like his lover can finally relax knowing that Merle isn't suffering anymore. There's a shadow of a smile on his lips as they leave the valley. The herd is gone, the birds are singing - it's a beautiful day. It brings a gentleness to him that extends beyond the horses - as refreshing as the stream they'd bathed in before leaving, their bodies cold until they'd come together for warmth.

The sorrow is still there; Rick can see it running deep beneath the surface. It's not as devastating as it had been, thankfully - not after the blessing of the wolf's visit. Daryl seems certain it had been Merle saying his last goodbye, and Rick isn't about to argue the accuracy of something he still knows so little about. Not after everything else he's seen of the world with Daryl at his side.

Lays sighs beneath him, and Rick pats her dark, strong neck. "I know," he chuckles when her ears swivel back toward him and she bites at her bit. "You'll see them again, I promise."

"Saw plenty of 'em a'ready, tha's fer sure," Daryl snorts. Rick looks at his lover curiously, seeing the fondness in the man's pale blue eyes and tilting his head in question. "Tha' stallion's hooves ov'r tail fer our Lays," he elaborates when he notices the rancher's stare. There's a knowing twinkle in his eyes and a smirk crooking his lips. "Guess he knows good bloodlines when he sees 'em."

"You think?" Rick grins and looks at his mare again. Her massive head swings around to look back at him, her dark eyes bright and gentle. She reaches back just a little farther to lip at the fabric of his jeans. He laughs as he swats playfully at her muzzle. "Mind your manners, mare."

She snorts but listens, and Daryl is shaking his head fondly when Rick's eyes stray toward his lover the way they always do. "New life a'ways comes when th' old is lost," he hears the younger man murmur.

It takes Rick a moment to puzzle out the cryptic words, and he feels his eyes widen when the meaning finally sinks in.

"She's not..." He looks at Lays again, who follows contentedly behind Badger as Daryl leads the gelding along the winding deer trails.

"Might be," Daryl says with a shrug. "Woke up an' saw 'em early th's mornin'. Should'a figured it was a risk, bringin' a mare ‘round an intact stallion. Thought it'd be Slicker fer her first'un, ta be honest.  Guess she had oth'r ideas."

"I guess we'll have to wait and see," Rick agrees. If he's being honest with himself, the thought of Lays possibly being pregnant is an exciting one. Her foal would be the second to be born on the ranch, and she's such an even-tempered mare. It makes him wonder if her potential offspring will share its dam's gentle nature. Then again, Streak is a polar opposite of Business, so there's no telling what the foal will be like - if there is one. Rick's still ecstatic either way, even if it is unexpected.

"We'll watch her for a few weeks and then call Hershel out to check on her," he decides. "In the meantime, it couldn’t hurt to give her extra vitamins, could it?"

"Nah," Daryl shakes his head. "Prob'lly do her good eith'r way."

Companionable silence then settles between them the way it so often does. Neither of them feel the need to disrupt the peaceful melodies of nature with inane chatter. They enjoy it instead, the symphonies of their surroundings soothing them as they wander separate paths of thought. Out in the wilderness of Georgia, with society so far away it's not even a glimmer on the horizon, Rick doesn't even think about the Derby. He enjoys the life that flourishes around him - the songs of the birds and the alarm bark of a fox when they come too close to its burrow. Rick sinks into it all with a relaxation he never feels within the overcrowded limits of a town or city. It's something that only happens when he immerses himself in nature wholly, without fear of repercussion. Lays blows out a snort like she's agreeing with him; her tail flicking against her sides and lashing at his legs as she chases away the flies trying to bite her.

"S'nice out here," Daryl mumbles when they're leaving the shady comfort of the forest and heading closer to the road across thick fields of dark grass and vibrant wildflowers. Rick turns to look at him and sees his lover watching the terrain pass by wistfully. When he catches Rick watching, Daryl smiles. "Jus' miss it when we ain't home," he explains quietly. "Love th' ranch. S'a better home than I ever c'n remember havin', aft’r mom died. I jus'...  _ miss _ it all when we ain't here, y’know?"

"I do too," Rick agrees. As much as he loves to see Streak run - and as much as they all know the filly loves it - nothing beats being at home when the day is done. "We do have a bit of time before the Derby," he adds with a smile. Daryl looks over at him, and Rick's smile widens as thoughts run through his mind like a river, spraying ideas from its banks like fine mists that hold the potential for so much more. "I say we make the most of it."

"Oh yeah?" Daryl's smirk is wicked and playful, his eyes dancing with mirth as he looks the rancher up and down with deliberate, sensual slowness. "Plannin' on ways ta spend th' time, cowboy?"

Rick chuckles, shaking his head at Daryl's flair for the overdramatic. "I was thinkin' a proper date for once," he replies with a deep fondness and  _ pride _ born from every act of confidence his lover displays now. A year ago, Daryl would never have been so bold. It's wonderful to see - wonderful to know that time, kindness, and the warmth of understanding were enough to finally tame the half-feral mutt that showed up on his doorstep. It was all of those things, and no little amount of love. Every moment they've spent together - every drop of affection and care Rick has poured over Daryl in the past year - has amounted to a rainstorm that has washed all of the consequences of the past away.

They have never been bound by the people they  _ were _ . Fate and destiny shone too kindly on them for that. They were always free to decide for themselves the path their lives were meant to take - they were going to accept whatever fate had in store for them either way.

Thankfully, in this case, fate has smiled on them. Maybe She saw how hard they fought for every scrap - how easily they melded together even when Daryl fought to stay separate from fear and self-deprecation. Whatever the case may be, they've already come this far in twelve months. Rick almost can't wait to see them in twelve years. It may be foolish thinking, planning so far ahead into a future that is so uncertain despite the present, but to him, there isn't even a glimmer of possibility that Daryl isn't the only one meant to share his heart like this.

"Date?" Daryl's smile is soft as he leans sideways in his saddle, his strong legs holding him in place better than his feet in the stirrups ever will. The wind tugs at his hair, his bangs kissing across his nose and hiding his twinkling eyes until Rick reaches over and gently brushes them back to see his lover better.

"There  _ is _ a pond up beyond the track," he murmurs. They're moving closer slowly, Badger and Lays adjusting their gaits almost as if they understand what's going on. "And I  _ do _ have a picnic basket somewhere I might be able to dust off. We can pack some sandwiches, maybe a beer or two. It's such a nice day; I bet it'll be a gorgeous night, too."

"That does sound kind'a nice," Daryl agrees with a warm, fond glance at the rancher. "Could bring a blanket too, maybe."

"I've got a few of them to spare," Rick muses. He lets Lays move him away when she finds a thick patch of grass; putting warm air between himself and the trainer that feels too cool after the closeness of having his lover by his side.

"Got one too. Think I'll bring it along." Daryl's head rolls back, his strong, tanned throat bared to the sunlight and Rick's appreciative eyes. There's nothing deliberately sensual about it, and yet it's so alluring that Rick feels his mouth dry and his throat click when he swallows.

There's something deeper in Daryl's words, something meaningful that Rick isn't quite sure how to puzzle out, so he agrees with a nod when pale eyes flick his way and lets silence settle between them again. They enjoy the birdsong until the heavy clip of the horses' hooves hitting asphalt rouses them from their thoughts and heralds the return to something approaching society. The wild slips away to hang at the fringes of their awareness, showing itself in bursts of color here and there along the dark, hard pavement to remind them that it's never truly gone from them.

By the time the fence line comes into sight, Lays and Badger are walking side by side again, their ears straining toward home and flicking back to hear the last of the wilderness they're leaving behind as their instincts war with their domestication. Rick knows how much they - especially Badger - love the valley already. He feels it like a warmth inside of his chest - something faded by distance but never completely gone. There's something else there, something that prickles warmly across his scalp and heats his skin like he's pressed close to another body and wrapped around them. It reminds him so much of Daryl, something as fresh and clear as the winds and as fierce as a hawk; the tickling smell of horse dust and earth. He can't help but look over, and he finds his lover already watching him with dark, focused eyes. Daryl's lips twitch up into a smile when he sees Rick looking; the rancher feels his scalp prickle again like gentle nails are raking through his curls.

"Better behave yourself, darlin'," he rumbles with a heated glance. Daryl shivers like Rick's words are a physical touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment, and then he's easing Badger into a faster walk and throwing a smile over his shoulder.

"Ain't no fun in that, cowboy, an' ya know it," he croons in reply. Rick hisses as desire stirs in his blood, but then Buck is racing toward them, and he's not alone. There's another dog running at his shoulder, a blue tick coonhound with a delicate face and a glossy coat. Rick has never seen her before, but Daryl clearly has. His lover sits up straight and whistles, and the coonhound breaks away from Buck's side to lope alongside Badger as the gelding trots down the long driveway.

"'Chu doin' here, Belle?" Rick hears Daryl ask, as if the dog can physically respond. She chuffs at him, her long, thin tail wagging, and Daryl tilts his head slightly. "Where's Axel?"

"Everythin' okay, Daryl?" Rick coaxes Lays to move a little faster, and when the lane opens into the wide, circular driveway, he sees a battered old rusty four-door parked crookedly in the grass that borders North pasture. There's no one in it, but as soon as they come into view, he sees Carol stand up from her seat on the porch. There's a strange man that stands up beside her, and even from yards away, Rick can see the nervous curl of narrow shoulders and the ducked head of red hair.

"Axel," Daryl calls instead of answering him. He glances back at Rick, looking worried and uncertain. That's more than enough for the rancher to swing himself out of the saddle as soon as they're close to the porch. Daryl does the same, and Bob comes from around the side of the house with Glenn to lead the horses away, like they knew Rick and Daryl would be back soon.

"Everything okay?" Rick repeats as he stands beside Daryl and looks up at Carol. His hands are on his hips, his feet set and his shoulders squared. He knows how he looks, like a cop taking control of a situation, and he sees how the shy man Daryl called Axel retreats a little further into himself until Carol puts herself between them with a stern, pointed look.

"This is Axel Roger," his secretary says calmly. Rick looks at her, easing his posture until the shorter man visibly relaxes. Daryl is the one to take the last several steps up onto the porch, coming to a stop in front of Axel and ducking his head to catch the man's nervous blue eyes. Rick has never heard him mention anyone by the name Axel - but then again, he’d never known that Carol and Daryl knew each other until they were reunited in front of him.

“You okay, man?” his lover asks quietly. Axel seems to relax further in Daryl’s presence. He’s so much shorter than the trainer, so much smaller, and when he finally looks up, Rick can see the relief and sorrow on his face even from several feet back.

“I heard about Merle, man,” Axel says just as quietly. He reaches out, and so does Daryl; they grab each other’s forearms and hold on tightly, tipping their heads forward and sharing a quiet moment to mourn between the two of them. Rick watches curiously, seeing how much different Daryl is around Axel. He’s relaxed, but there’s also a subtle sort of tension strung through his shoulders, something that strikes Rick as protective as he keeps the smaller man in his taller, broader shadow; like that will be enough to keep him safe from anything around them.

“Thank you,” Daryl murmurs when their hands drop back to their sides. Turning slightly, he sees Rick looking at them and smiles bashfully. His lover motions for him to join them, and Rick has no plan to deny the offer. He steps up beside Daryl smoothly and deliberately relaxes himself to try and put Axel more at ease. His mannerisms remind the rancher of how Daryl had been when they’d first met - wild and wary, like a half-feral mongrel that had spent too much time on the street. Where Daryl had held a clear danger of snapping at anything that got too close, Axel’s actions seem purely fear-based. He looks more than ready to show his belly or bolt, his teeth hidden and his eyes skittering across the deck of the porch beneath them. Only Daryl’s steady presence at his side is keeping him where he is, and Rick shifts back subtly to give the timid, nervous man more space.

“They said you were workin’ on a farm,” Axel murmurs shyly after a moment where they all stand and let the atmosphere settle back into something relaxed. “With Carol,” he adds, smiling at the woman. Carol smiles back and rests a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Told me it was this big place on the outskirts of Fulton, and that I’d find y’all if I just followed the road. You guys really got that bigass filly? Devil’s Pride?”

“Tha’s our girl, yeah,” Daryl agrees with a fond, crooked smile. “She’s out in th’ pasture right now. Might see her when we turn our other mare out with her. They like ta run t’gether.”

“So you live here?” Axel seems to be brimming with questions, and the longer they allow him to gain his composure, the more confident he becomes about seeking answers. He never looks away from Daryl or Carol, but Rick can’t find it in himself to be bothered by the man’s obvious nervousness. If all he needs to do right now is stand with his hands tucked into his pockets and his head ducked to make himself seem less imposing, he’ll do it. Axel is clearly Daryl’s friend, and from the way they’d greeted one another, they’ve been friends for a while.

“Yeah. S’my home now,” Daryl nods. He glances toward Rick, pale eyes grateful when he sees the obvious care the rancher is putting into making Axel feel comfortable. “This is Rick,” he adds, and Rick was expecting that. He nods, smiling at Axel when the man’s nervous eyes flick over him quickly, assessing him without making eye contact. “He’s mine,” the trainer adds, and Rick wasn’t quite expecting that. It makes Axel laugh though, and he finally meet Rick’s eyes for a few heartbeats before looking away.

“Seems like he’s done you a world of good,” Axel teases. Daryl huffs, but he nods, and his eyes are open and gentle when he looks at Rick again. He’s not ashamed - or afraid - of his friend knowing that they’re together. That warms Rick’s chest more than anything else could, because if this meeting had happened even a few months ago, Daryl never would have said anything other than  _ he’s my boss _ .

“More’n I ev’r expected, when I first heard ‘bout this job from Dale,” the trainer agrees. He looks out toward the barn, watching as Bob and Glenn lead Badger and Lays out and start walking them toward their respective pastures. Axel watches too, until Rick sees Daryl touch his shoulder to draw the man’s attention back to him. “What’s goin’ on, Axel? Why you lookin’ for me?”

“Figured since you never came back that you found somewhere that fit you as well as you fit it. And when I heard about Merle, I wanted to see how you were holding up.” Axel chews his lip, and Rick watches the coonhound lift her pretty head from where she and Buck are curled up together in the sun. The heeler lifts his head too, but Belle is the one to get up and jump onto the porch with a soft whine as she pushes her muzzle into the cup of her owner’s palm.

“She’s a beautiful animal,” he comments, and Axel nods with a wide smile as he strokes his dog’s head and she licks his fingers.

“She’s my best friend,” the man whispers. “Well, my best animal friend,” he corrects himself with a grin toward Daryl. The trainer snorts, rolling his eyes, but he’s smiling too when he musses Axel’s hair in a way that reminds Rick of an older sibling picking on their younger brother.

“What’re ya doin’ now, Axel?” Daryl motions toward the chairs, offering a place to sit, and they all take a seat. Axel keeps close to Daryl, still obviously wary of Rick but comfortable enough around Carol not to flinch away when she chooses the chair beside his. Once they're all relaxing, Buck lumbers up onto the porch and lays himself in front of Rick and Daryl. Belle lays down with him, and he starts to groom her with an enthusiasm that is almost too precious to witness.

“Driftin’,” Axel finally shrugs. He's looking around the ranch, and Rick can see his yearning as clear as day. It's surprisingly similar to the way Daryl had looked when Rick showed him around his first day - wonder and excitement mixed with a deep hope that he would be allowed to stay; that he wouldn't do anything to fuck up his chances at the happiness being offered on a silver platter.

“Still in Atlanta?” Daryl glances at Rick before leaning closer to his friend. Axel turns to look at him, nodding slowly but not offering much more. “Yeah? Still run with Oscar?”

“He died.” Something like sorrow overtakes Axel’s face, darkening his eyes and making them shine from unshed tears. He curls into himself again, looking down at his feet and hiding behind the stringy strands of his unwashed hair. He looks like he's in desperate need of a shower and a warm place to sleep. Rick's heart aches at the grief that still comes through so strongly for someone as small and uncertain as Axel seems to be. Was Oscar his brother, or was he just a friend? Maybe a lover? They're far from the only gay men in Georgia.

“Shit, man. How?” Daryl's eyes are wide as he leans forward. One broad, comforting hand rests on Axel’s shoulder, squeezing gently while Rick watches them and lets his mind whir.

“Got caught between a robber and his escape,” Axel whispers. He still hasn't looked up, but Rick can see the tears starting to drip from the end of his nose. The man shudders and fists his hands on his knees, leaning forward like curling in on himself will be enough to keep his emotions at bay.

“I'm so sorry, Ax.” Daryl looks upset by the news, but not as devastated as his friend. There's still a shine to his eyes when he looks at the rancher helplessly, although there isn't much Rick can do about this situation. All he can do is press his hand against his lover's lower back, offering comfort while Daryl soothes Axel. “Where’ve you been stayin’ the last few months?”

“I've been hopping b’tween the parks,” Axel sniffs, his lighter accent thickening with his emotions. He's trying to wipe the tears away, but they're coming too fast now to be stopped so easily. “The cops ain't botherin’ me much, I swear. I only sleep in 'em at night, otherwise I'm all over the city.”

“It's still cold at night,” Daryl protests. It hasn't been lately, now that spring is almost halfway over, but if Axel has been sleeping in the park for that long now, he's lucky he hasn't gotten sick when it was still cold enough to be dangerous. “Why not go ta th’ shelter?”

“They ain't so nice there when it's just me.” Axel shrugs like it doesn't matter, and Rick decides that's more than he's okay with letting slide.

“Do you have a job, Axel?” he asks gently. He can tell that the man doesn't understand the purpose of the question, but Daryl reads his intentions instantly. His lover looks at him with so much overwhelming gratefulness that Rick feels like he's already won the grand prize for being a decent human being. He's not just doing this because Axel is his trainer's friend though. His morals and his conscience will never give him a moment of peace again if he lets Axel leave  _ knowing _ that the man doesn't have a warm, safe place to go back to.

"Not really," Axel admits. He looks guilty, like admitting that he really is a drifter is something to be ashamed of. Rick will never judge him no matter what, because sometimes life isn't kind to everyone. If Axel needs help, if he's willing to accept the offered hand, then Rick will be glad to help in whatever way he can. If Axel refuses, then there isn't much the rancher can do.

Something in him doubts Axel will refuse.

"You good with animals?" he asks, tilting his head and waiting patiently for the startled blue eyes that jump up to stare at him with shock and wonder. "My ranch isn't exactly the biggest, but we've always got more than enough chores that need done. If you'd be willing to help out, I'd much appreciate it."

Axel looks at Daryl, and his expression tells Rick clearly that he's asking if this is a hoax. Daryl is smiling though, and when he puts his hand on Rick's shoulder, he reaches back to rest his over his lover's and squeezes gently.

"Ain't a trick, man," Daryl laughs. It's low and rough, and full of just as much awe as Axel has painted on his face. "He don' take in strays that ain't gonna mesh wit' th' rest’a th’ beasts."

Rick looks pointedly at Buck, who has wriggled his way toward the drifter and is resting his head beside Axel’s boot - panting happily and still trying to groom Belle. His dog has clearly approved of the quiet man, enough to be completely at ease around him. The fact that his coonhound is so obviously well taken care of is just another point in the man's favor.

"So, what do you say?" Rick smiles and holds out his hand, waiting patiently the same way he had when he'd extended the offer of employment to Daryl. Unlike Daryl, Axel is quick to shake his hand - firmly, eagerly, and radiating a gratefulness that seems to make the air around him shimmer. Rick can almost feel the gentle shift that buzzes faintly against his skin, and his smile widens just a bit in response.

"I'll go get the paperwork," Carol chuckles as she follows the wrap-around porch to get to Rick's office. "Welcome aboard, Axel," she calls over her shoulder.

Axel beams, and Rick pats his hand gently before letting go. "Welcome aboard," he echoes with a nod. "Glad to have you with us."

"Don't fuck it up," Daryl adds. It's playful, but Rick can sense the faint undercurrent of warning as easily as he can feel it buzzing against his skin. Daryl's energy is much more present and intense than Axel’s, at least to the rancher. Something tells him that it's always going to be that way.

Axel looks determined, like he's been given the opportunity of a lifetime and he'll do anything to prove himself. "I won't let you down," he promises fervently.

Rick nods one more time, his smile crooked and lopsided in a way he's picked up from Daryl after months of seeing the same grin on his lover's face. "Alright then. Step into my office and let's make it official."

"Yes, sir!"

"Just... don't call me sir. Rick's just fine."

Daryl laughs as he follows them, the deep, rich sound warming Rick all the way down to his soles.

\-- 

The sky is a magnificent sprawl of colors when they reach the pond. Rick looks out over the gentle ripples of the water and smiles when he sees the gorgeous shades of orange and pink and fading blue painted over the surface of the pond. Georgia has some incredible sunsets, especially when coupled with the backdrop of the forest. The trees are already swallowed by dark shadows as the sun sets and the moon creeps farther above the horizon.

None of it compares to Daryl's beauty when he's highlighted against it. The colors spill across his skin and make his eyes seem ancient and ethereal when he looks at Rick. He looks like a god painted into existence right in front of the rancher; powerful and made all the more beautiful for the wildness that shines through especially strongly in this moment.

"I love you so much it hurts to breathe sometimes," he murmurs while Daryl is spreading out the blanket he's brought along. It's a beautiful piece of woven fabric, covered in geometric patterns in shades of red and black and orange that is reminiscent of the evening sky. Each design is bordered by a shade of brown that completes the pattern and reminds him of the earth that grounds all of them. "That's a beautiful blanket," he adds, and Daryl's smile is soft when he glances up from where he's smoothing it out over the grass.

"M'mom made it." The trainer shifts, looking wistful but not as pained as when he's spoken about the woman who meant so much to him in the past. There's a lightness to him now, something even more noticeable after Merle's passing. He looks free in an entirely new way - like the chains that kept him tethered before have rusted through and fallen away, leaving him free to soar above the ground or thunder across the fields unhindered.

"It's beautiful," Rick says again as he admires the blanket. Daryl finishes getting it spread to his satisfaction and crawls onto it. He ruins his work and sits with a relaxed sigh, tipping his head back, and Rick takes the spot offered beside his lover when the trainer pats at it.

"S' Southwest Navajo. She really loved learnin' 'bout different Nations oth'r than her own," Daryl murmurs. He watches Rick thumb the center of one of the designs, something in his eyes that the rancher isn't sure how to name when he catches a glimpse of it.

"Suits you," Rick comments with a playful smile. It really does fit, even if the region isn't quite right. So much of his mother's legacy lives on in Daryl - the last of his bloodline to carry the name of a noble, proud lineage. Even if he insists that his father's surname ruins the beauty of it, Rick will never agree. In his opinion, Daryl will always be so much more than his last name.

"Wha'chu did, fer Axel," Daryl murmurs. He turns his head so his nose is pressed against Rick's shoulder, and the rancher watches his lover breathe in deeply with a barely-there smile on his face. "Ya didn'  _ hafta _ do that. Ya don' know him. He's a good man, though. Thank you."

"I'll always try to help those who need it." Rick reaches up to run his fingers through Daryl's hair. The angle is a awkward for his wrist, but he's too content to worry about the way it twinges. It's worth it when Daryl nuzzles against the pulse point below the base of his palm and presses a warm, dry kiss to the skin there. "Won't fall in love with all of them, but I consider you an exceptional case." Rick grins, and Daryl huffs out a laugh.

"Real funny, cowboy. Better not be fallin' in love with no one else. I  _ don' _ share."

"I don't either," Rick rumbles. He watches the way Daryl shivers at how low and gruff his voice becomes, and between one blink and the next he ends up with his arms full of the most incredible person he's ever had the pleasure of knowing. Daryl's weight settles over his thighs, his strong arms draped loosely around Rick's shoulders and his eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Reckon I owe ya a thanks fer stickin' yer neck out on this'un," he muses. Rick laughs and squeezes Daryl's hips, feeling the way the man settles in and makes himself comfortable with the smallest shifts that bring them closer. They end up with their groins pressed together, the air warming between them slowly, but there's no desire to turn the embrace sexual. There's always tension crackling between them, their passion like a storm that brews slowly until it breaks and they crash together like waves; gentling into streams that flow side-by-side and cross often to merge and form a fathomless river.

"You don't  _ owe _ me anythin', Daryl," Rick murmurs. He rubs his hands up his lover's sides, feeling how Daryl moves with him to always keep contact between them. With his spine arching and his ribs firm against Rick's palms, his eyes hooded and content, he looks every inch the wild creature Rick had once wondered if he could ever gain the trust of. To have him here, now, rumbling quietly as Rick's hands drag up to cup the sides of his neck, makes the rancher give thanks for every moment between them that got them to this point. He wouldn't trade any of it away, even if some of it wasn't entirely happy. It all went into shaping every facet of their relationship, and it brought them to the bank of this pond, with Daryl sitting comfortably on his thighs as the warm night air dances across their skin.

Daryl cups his face, his callous-rough palms gentle against Rick's beard. His fingers tease over the shells of Rick's ears and curl against the hinges of his jaw, bringing him closer until they're breathing the same air. The rancher swears he can sees the stars in Daryl's eyes - the infinite span of the universe contained in a blue too open and free to be anything but the sky.

"I love you, my wild sky," he whispers. Daryl's smile is lopsided, his head tilting slightly, and Rick hears the distant heckle of a coyote.

"An’ I you,  _ agigau _ ," he whispers. The term is enough to make warmth blossom in Rick's chest like a magnolia flower unfurling; trailing through his limbs like creeping vines and guiding him to tangle his fingers in Daryl's hair and close the last few inches between them.

Their kiss is slow and gentle, with no need for either of them to push for more. It's an affirmation - a conversation that has no need for words. It's Rick's reverence in every touch, his promise of  _ I love you more than I can ever say _ in the way he cradles the back of Daryl's head and rubs his lower back. Daryl's  _ I know _ is the flutter of his eyelashes tickling against Rick's - the slow rasp of his chapped lips against the rancher's beard as he kisses across his cheeks and nuzzles his jaw. He finds his way back and they kiss again, promising  _ forever _ and  _ always _ simultaneously before the need for air draws them apart.

Daryl rests his forehead against Rick's, for once not fighting the shy, sweet smile that the rancher can just barely see because of how close they are. "Don' know 'bout you, but I'm fuckin' hungry," the trainer whispers. Rick's stomach voices its agreement, and they share a quiet moment of laughter before the comforting weight on his legs is gone and Daryl is rolling over to lay on his back. His hands go behind his head, his eyes dancing across the cloudless night sky, and Rick traces one firm bicep with barely-there touches until his lover huffs at him and brings his elbow up to knock his arm away.

"Quit that shit," he grouses, but even in the darkness Rick can see the gentle smile that has yet to leave as easily as if it was midday. He laughs and catches his lover's wrist, kissing the inside of his forearm before turning to pull the picnic basket closer.

"Anythin' in particular you want?" he asks as he turns on the lantern they'd brought along to add some light so he can sort through the few sandwiches they'd thrown together before leaving. He'd made them with whatever meat he'd found in the fridge - ham, some roast beef, and something he thinks might be rabbit. Daryl has been hunting game and setting snares around the ranch, bringing in some wild meats that Rick has never tasted before.

Who knew squirrel could be so delicious if it was done right?

"Ham," Daryl says around a yawn. Rick digs out a sandwich for each of them and a thermos of Carol's home-brewed tea. He snags a bag of pretzels and drops it all between them on the blanket. He goes for the tea first while Daryl rips open the pretzels, and Rick watches him break the sticks before eating each half separately. He's never seen anyone eat them like that, and when Daryl realizes he's being watched, he arches an eyebrow at the rancher.

"What?"

Swallowing his mouthful of tea, Rick grins and grabs a handful of pretzels for himself. It's Daryl's turn to watch him eat, the artificial light of the bright lantern adding a harshness to his otherwise smooth features. With the way he's sitting, he's half thrown in shadow, his eyes glowing, and Rick is holding a pretzel up before he's even thought it through. Daryl leans forward to take it, rolling his eyes good-naturedly, although his humor fades to confusion, and then understanding, when Rick ignores his outstretched palm and instead presses the pretzel against his chapped lower lip.

"I love you," he murmurs, and he gets to watch Daryl's eyes darken as he opens his mouth and lets Rick feed him. Rick watches intently, seeing the way his lover's jaw works as he chews. Daryl takes small bites, bringing Rick's fingers closer and closer to his mouth, until he curls his tongue out to take the last morsel and licks the rancher's fingers as he does so. Rick shivers at the deliberately sensual display, licking his own lips and offering another pretzel.

After several more, Daryl sits back and reaches for his sandwich. Rick watches, breathless and already knowing what's coming. His lover rips the sandwich into bite-sized pieces, and Rick is already opening his mouth before the first bite is offered.

"I love ya too," Daryl whispers. Rick smiles and enjoys the mingling flavors on his tongue, chewing thoroughly and offering Daryl another pretzel at the same time he opens his mouth for the next piece of the sandwich. They feed each other, drifting closer and closer, until Daryl is a hot line of tense anticipation beside him, his thigh pressed against Rick's and his eyes almost seeming to blaze like twin fires in the lantern light.

"If you hadn't grown up around horses, would you still have tried to be a trainer?" The question comes while he's pouring Daryl a cup of sweet tea. His lover sips it with a thoughtful hum, and Rick watches him as he gives the question a good deal of thought before he finally answers.

"If it weren't trainin', I'd'a tried ta find  _ some _ way ta be around th' beasts," he finally answers. "However I could've done it, I'd'a made them a part'a my life." Looking down into his cup, he swishes around the tea before drinking the rest of it. "Animals've a'ways been a big part'a who I am." Chewing his lip, he looks out across the pond. Rick looks too, watching the black water ripple as fish come up to feed on insects. Now and then they can hear a splash, and it makes Rick think of days he'd spent sitting in the mud on the bank after it rained, his bobber dancing and his hook baited as he escaped from people for a little while to piece himself back together in solitude. His scar aches from the memories of those days, that time tainted with the pain and bitterness he'd felt after leaving Atlanta. It hasn't bugged him very much at all lately, and he wonders if Daryl's influence in his life had anything to do with that.

"I'd always wanted a dog," he says quietly. He feels Daryl's eyes on him, and he smiles without looking over. "It was something Lori and I always fought about. We had a decent yard, and a fence. It was a good neighborhood. I'd even contemplated joining the K-9 unit, if for nothing else than knowing that the dog would be a part of my life in whatever way I could have it."

"Why didn' ya?" Daryl murmurs.

Rick laughs softly. "Lori wasn't a dog person. She refused to bring one into the house. She always had reasons and excuses for why we couldn't, but it all boiled down to her just not being a fan of dogs. Even the little ones."

"Fuckin' ankle biters," Daryl snorts. He surprises Rick by laying his head on the rancher's shoulder, the sexual tension that had been brewing slowly fading away into something much more relaxed and content. "How'd ya get Buck, then?"

"After I bought the property, and I saw just how much space I was going to have, I figured there was nothing stopping me. I actually found him in a shelter. I guess his mother's owner hadn't wanted the responsibility of a pregnant dog and her litter, so she'd surrendered them all. I got Buck when he was eight weeks old - found out about him through Hershel. He volunteers his services at the shelter now and then, and he's the one that saw Shenna through her labor. She ended up havin' five pups, and he was my favorite. There was just somethin' about him, even back then. I knew he was meant for me."

"He's a damn good dog," Daryl agrees with a soft chuckle. Rick nods, and he can't stop himself from cupping Daryl's cheek. His lover leans into the touch, already searching for the kiss he knows is coming before Rick leans forward.

"You're a damn good man," he breathes against the younger man's mouth. Daryl huffs, his lips curling up against Rick's, and he feels one strong, steady hand cup the back of his neck as Daryl deepens the kiss.

"Think she's got it in her?" Daryl whispers against his chin. Rick breathes his declaration back to the man pressed so close to him that he can't even feel the faint coolness of the chilled thermos as it rolls and ends up against his knee.

"I think she's gonna blow us all away."

Daryl rolls them, settling over Rick's thighs again - a warm, comforting weight when his groin settles against the rancher's and he braces himself on his forearms. His long hair falls around their faces like a curtain, the light shining through just enough for Rick to make out the features he knows so well he wouldn't even need light to read Daryl's expression. He reads his body instead - how he shivers when Rick's fingers trace slightly up his sides under the shirt. His skin is warm beneath Rick's palms, his muscles solid, but he's as liquid and graceful as a dancer when he slides against Rick and finds his mouth with a soft, sweet sigh.

Tangling one hand in the hair that drapes over Daryl's nape, Rick guides the kiss and keeps his lover close with a hand resting against the hot, damp slope of Daryl's lower back. The trainer groans, guttural and low, and Rick responds with a rumble of his own as Daryl settles more comfortably against him.

"We're not doin’ much eatin', darlin'," he teases quietly. Daryl hums and nips at his lips; leans up to nip the tip of his nose before trailing kisses toward his ear.

"Ate more'n enough from yer fuckin' hand,  _ agigau _ ," he growls. "Never thought it'd be that damn sexy, but goddamn if ya don' make every fuckin' thing ya do sinful as shit. Good thing I ain't a pure, proper Christian boy. I'd be damned ta Hell f'r what ya do ta me. All that shit ya make me  _ feel _ ."

"I could say the same about you," Rick murmurs as he rolls them over. Daryl ends up half off the blanket, his head cushioned by thick, sweet-smelling grass. He arches up against Rick, a throaty noise that reminds him of a purr rumbling from the trainer's throat; his arms tight around the rancher's neck to drag him down into a wet, eager kiss. The sweetness morphs into passion, their lips swollen and sensitive and their hands roaming over flesh they've long since learned as they shed restrictive cloth in favor of free, naked skin.

Humming, Rick kisses his way down Daryl's chest and nuzzles his stomach, kissing and nipping at his abdominal muscles until he hears a sharp breath hiss through Daryl's teeth. He also hears the unmistakable sound of grass ripping, and he glances up to see his lover fisting the tall grass above his head, the other hand over his mouth doing nothing to muffle his noises as he watches Rick with eyes that are almost black from desire. The love is just as strong in the depths of his stare; the knowledge that Rick will never do anything to hurt Daryl stripping his lover's reservations until he's uninhibited and arching his spine with a rough groan when Rick nuzzles the sharp curve of his left hip bone before biting it gently. Daryl jerks beneath him, moaning just a little louder, and it's more than enough incentive for Rick to bite again and suck a dark mark onto the tanned, freckled skin.

" _ Shit _ ," Daryl gasps. A hand settles on Rick's head, shaking fingers tangling through his curls, and he can feel Daryl's indecision. He answers with a glance and a wicked smirk, and Daryl bites the side of his hand when Rick moves just a little lower. He takes the man into his mouth, tasting the salt-musk of his natural scent, and he hears the solid thump when Daryl's head knocks back against the ground. Rick sucks slowly, teasing and savoring the drag of his lips up the hot, hard flesh. When he bobs his head back down, and the hand on his head spasms in his curls.

Seeing Daryl lost in the throes of desire will never get tiring. Tasting him, and breathing in the deep, musky smell of his lover has become almost addictive for Rick. There's so many things he'd love to say, so many things he'd love to do to prove to the man falling apart beneath him that he's the greatest thing to ever walk into Rick's life. There aren't enough hours in the day - not enough wildflowers blooming in the field around them. There aren't enough cycles of the moon or months in a season. Rick can spend every day for the rest of his life trying to show Daryl just how precious and beloved he is, and he'll never come close to breaching the fathomless depths of his heart.

Daryl shudders, moaning loudly and unrestrained, and Rick smiles as he kisses his way back up his lover's chest to nuzzle against his throat and kiss the sweaty underside of his jaw. He gargles some water tucked into the bottom of the picnic basket and spits off to the side before Daryl is dragging him down and kissing him with an intensity that's almost bruising. Rick kisses back just as eagerly, knotting the trainer's dark hair around his fingers and rocking down against the pliant, welcoming body that rises like a sensuous wave to meet him with a heat that sparks across Rick's nerves like lightning.

Quick fingers fumble at his pants, undoing the button and dragging down the zipper before Daryl's hand slides in underneath the band of his boxers. He palms Rick, rumbling quietly when the rancher thrusts into the loose tunnel of his grip.

"C'mon," Daryl hisses, stroking him the best he can with the layers of cloth and the awkward angle keeping him from driving Rick out of his mind the way he loves to. "C'mon,  _ agigau _ ; yer turn."

Rick groans from deep in his chest, pressing his forehead against Daryl's and panting hotly as his hips jerk a few more times and wetness streaks across the younger man's fingers. Daryl hums, pleased, and as soon as there's some space between them he sucks his fingers clean. Rick shuts his eyes tightly, groaning again, and Daryl twitches and shakes beneath him as the trainer laughs quietly.

"You're gonna be the death of me one of these days, Daryl Dixon," Rick huffs with a fondly exasperated smile. He can see pale blue eyes twinkling with mirth as Daryl lays his head back against the grass and looks up at him through his eyelashes.

"You really gonna leave me over a li'l finger suckin'?" he teases. Rick has to kiss him again for that, and then again just because he'll never get tired of kissing Daryl for as long as they live. When they finally make themselves presentable, both of them still shirtless but with pants buttoned and the night air cooling their sweat, they share a sandwich and the last of the tea between them.

"It's so beautiful here," Daryl sighs quietly as he looks out over the pond. Rick wipes away a smear of mustard from the corner of the man's mouth and sucks it from his thumb with a noise of agreement. He looks out over the water as well, breathing in deeply to smell the scent of the algae mixing with the sweet grass and the faint aroma of wildflowers. 

"We should go swimmin' one'a these days," he murmurs. Daryl nods, leaning against him and laying his head on Rick's shoulder again. Wrapping an arm around his lover, Rick strokes his fingers over the man's warm skin. He can't feel a difference between unblemished skin and where the tattoo starts, but he's spent so many months memorizing every inch of Daryl that he knows when he's brushing over a leaf-feather without even having to look. 

"Yeah? I'd like that. Bet Buck would too. Shit, bet any'a th' beasts would have a great fuckin' time splashin' 'round out there." Daryl turns his head enough to nuzzle Rick's jaw and press a kiss into his beard. He snorts quietly, and before Rick can ask what he's thinking, his lover sneezes on him.

"Daryl! Jesus, you're disgusting," he grouses without any heat in the words while he wipes his face clean.

"Yer th' one with a forest on yer face," Daryl quips without remorse. Rick retaliates by biting the trainer's ear hard enough to make the younger man yelp and smack at his bare shoulder.

"Asshole! Ain't playin' fair!" he accuses as he rubs at the bitten skin. Rick grins, unrepentant, and presses Daryl back against the blankets to kiss him just a little more.

"All's fair in love and war, darlin'," he purrs. Daryl snorts at him and bares his teeth the way Buck sometimes does when he's annoyed.

"Yeah, an' payback's a bitch," he growls before biting Rick's shoulder hard enough to make him shout in pain. It  _ hurts _ , and Daryl looks pleased with himself as he leans back to admire the mark. It's already turning red, and Rick knows that by morning it will be a mottled smudge of blues and purples that will stay with him for a while.

"And revenge is a dish best served cold," he retorts. They eye each other for a moment before dissolving into quiet laughter. Daryl kisses the stinging bite wound on Rick's shoulder, and he gently kisses the shell of his lover's ear before rolling to the side. He settles on his back on the blanket, his arm outstretched, and Daryl fits perfectly along his side with his head resting in the crook of the rancher's arm.

"Love ya,  _ agigau _ ," he murmurs barely loud enough for Rick to hear over the sound of the nighttime insects, even with how close they are.

"I love you too, my wild sky," he whispers. He presses a kiss against Daryl's temple before they let silence fall between them. They look up at the sky, their eyes following the clusters of stars while the peaceful sounds of the wild provides a soundtrack they could easily get lost in.

Come morning, they'll return to preparing for the Derby and tending to their various other responsibilities. For now, this moment is theirs alone - just as it should be.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so it's late again but here it is! All the kudos to the darling katytheinspiredworkaholic, who was trying to beta the last few chapters while gallivanting across a good chunk of the U.S. You're incredible and fantastic and I adore you. <3
> 
> GUYS WE'RE SLOWLY DRAWING CLOSER TO THE END WHAT. Oh my god only a few chapters left! ;n; *flails* Every single one'a y'all has been so incredible for commenting and just generally being so excited for this. I can't believe we're almost at the end. I need to go be emotional now.
> 
> Enjoy. <3 <3 <3 <3
> 
> EDIT: OH MY GOD OKAY now that it's not 1:30 or so in the morning and I'm totally more awake GUYS LOOK AT THIS BEAUTIFUL PIECE OF WORK "GILVEN" MADE FOR ME OH MY GOD IT'S GORGEOUS I LOVE IT IMMA POST IT NOW OKAY COOL THANK YOU SO MUCH YOU DARLING ffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff *flails forever* Seriously so many people have made so many things for this it blows my mind I'm honored and also a babbling fool just gods thank y'all so much I'm so glad ya like this story as much as y'all do I'm totally rambling okay I'll stop now just THANK YOU SO MUCH.

[](http://s55.photobucket.com/user/Natacu/media/Photoshop/TWD/Running%20With%20The%20Devil.jpg.html)

No one is the least bit surprised when Streak wins a spot in the Derby line up. She's an undefeated filly; she's more than earned her place. As the names of the horses racing start to become public knowledge, there are a few that ping in Rick's memory. He remembers Gypsy Dancer, the horse that had almost beaten Streak in one race. Sugar Glider made it too, and he smiles at the thought of how proud Dale must feel of his granddaughter's favorite colt proving his merit. There's a colt named Run on Home as well; he's owned by the same stable that owns Gypsy Dancer. There are several names he doesn't recognize, but they must be good to have gotten this far. As he learns more about the horses and reads their racing stats, he wonders if Streak will have what it takes to defeat these primed, competitive colts, or if Devil's Pride will sweep them all under the rug and leave them covered in her dust. 

Daryl seems to have enough faith in Streak for all of them, but he doesn't skimp on making sure she'll be ready for the Kentucky Derby when it arrives. He works with a single-minded focus, silent but for the twitches of his muscles as he and Streak run the home track together before he lets Sasha up on her back. The trainer and jockey spend hours with their heads bent together, a grimy sheet of paper gripped in Daryl's dirty hand as he points to things and Sasha nods. Rick knows they're trying to determine who will be the horse to beat - he's had the same conversation with both of them multiple times.

"Pay attention, Rhee!" Daryl barks. Rick snaps out of his daydreams of Streak's challengers and blinks himself back into awareness. Glenn is shifting from foot to foot nervously, agitating Sky as the colt paces and dances in front of him; he mirrors the man's anxiety with his own with a snort before pawing at the ground.

"I'll screw it up!" Glenn protests with a slightly hysterical edge to his voice, waving a hand at Sky and wincing when the colt rears slightly before backing out of reach. He's never been this nervous around any of the horses - but then, he's only ever groomed and tended to their needs before. He's never actually tried to train them. He'd been so interested in it though, and Daryl has softened toward all of them in a way Rick was beginning to think might never happen until it actually did.

He watches the trainer jump down from where he's been sitting on the fence, already crooning quietly and clucking his tongue as he reaches for Sky. After a moment, the colt prances toward him sideways, his neck arched and his nostrils flaring. When a treat appears in Daryl's palm, the horse seems to forget he was ever nervous; he crowds the two men to take it with gentle lips. Daryl hums and strokes his dark neck, and Rick smiles as he leans against the fence to watch the lesson unfold.

"C'mon," his lover coaxes gently. "Gimme yer hand." He reaches out before Glenn can protest, and the groom makes a quiet sound when his palm is pressed against Sky's warm, twitching shoulder. "He ain't no different than he's been any oth'r time," Daryl says calmly, and with a patience that seems as deeply rooted in him as the natural magic - Rick can think of no other word for it - that runs through his veins. "Yer just doin' somethin' different this time. Ain't no big scary thing, Glenn. He's still th' same. Now yer jus' gonna learn him in a new way."

"What if I screw up?" Glenn whispers. He pets Sky, digging his fingers in and scratching the blade of the colt's shoulder the way he loves. Sure enough, Sky sighs happily and leans into the affection as he drops his head to blow against the dirt-packed ground.

"Ain't nothin' ya c'n do he ain't gonna forgive ya for," Daryl chuckles. "Ain't usin' whips; sure as fuck ain't beatin' him. Yer just learnin' his language. You'll get there."

Determination deepens the laugh lines on Glenn's face, and he nods before stepping back. Daryl moves with him, backing away until he's leaning his elbows on the top rung of the fence and relaxing back against it beside Rick. "Watch him," he instructs. "Learn how he moves. Tell me what it means."

"You're good at this," Rick murmurs. He slides a little bit closer, nothing but a plank of reinforced wood between them, and steals a quick kiss that Daryl makes dirtier with a nip and the wicked curl of his tongue. Rick rumbles and deepens it until Glenn clears his throat pointedly and they break apart to look at him. Daryl is smirking, his cheeks faintly pink, and Rick watches him deliberately lick his swollen lips before tilting his head.

"What's he sayin'?" he asks, and Glenn ducks his head sheepishly before gesturing toward the colt watching them while he grazes on the sweet, dark green grass growing around the perimeter of the round pen.

"That he's hungry?" the groom hazards. He shakes his head, looking frustrated with himself, and rakes a hand back through his dark hair. Daryl doesn't say anything, just waits. He's forcing Glenn to pay attention and  _ see _ . He won't give him clues, and he won't berate him for getting frustrated. He's as serene as a pine; tall and strong and waiting to impart his wisdom to those with enough patience to  _ listen _ . Rick has never seen someone teach the way Daryl teaches. He's not cruel, but he's not a pushover either. He only lays the groundwork for Glenn to build from - the groomer just has to prove he's willing to put in the work.

Eventually, Glenn takes a deep breath and turns to look at Sky again. Sensing the intense focus being aimed solely at him, the colt lifts his head and watches the young man with dark, liquid eyes. Rick watches too, picking up on every little shift and twitch of powerful muscles in a way he never would have known to look for just a year ago.

"He's irritated by the flies," Glenn finally murmurs.

"Yeah? How can ya tell?" Daryl asks. Glenn's not looking at them, but Rick can see his lover's smile growing even as he keeps it from leaking into his voice.

"He's flickin' his tail, and stomping a hoof. They're biting him," the groom says. He's chewing his lip and frowning. Sky tosses his head and takes a cautious step closer.

"He's sore," Glenn points out a heartbeat after Rick notices.

"Where?" Daryl clucks his tongue, calling the colt closer and getting him to walk so Glenn can observe the awkward roll of his gait. Rick sees it too, and he worries the inside of his lower lip as he tries to think of solutions.

"Right hind," Glenn answers promptly, and Daryl huffs. When the younger man turns to look back at them, he sees the grin on the trainer's face and grins back bashfully. "It is, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is," Daryl nods. "Throws off th' right shoulder, s'why he's walkin' so weird. It'll always throw off the opposite side. So, if they're sore in th' left hind, they'll be sore in th' right shoulder. Same if it's th’ oth'r way ‘round."

"Is he gonna be okay?" Glenn strokes Sky's neck, offering him treats and smiling when the colt sneezes on his hand after accepting the goodies.

"I'll get Axel ta look at him. He's got some background in equine massage," Daryl muses. Rick stares at his lover, having not expected that at all, and Daryl glances at him; tilting his head and shrugging. "He knows a lot about a lot'a stuff. A'ways wanted ta learn everything he could," he explains.

"Good to know," Rick laughs. Daryl nods and climbs the fence, swinging over onto the outside and dropping down beside Rick with a sigh.

"Turn him out when y'all are done cooin' at each oth'r?" he teases playfully. When Glenn nods, clearly more absorbed in the horse lipping at his pockets in search of more treats, they share an amused glance and turn to head toward Streak's pasture. The filly has been waiting impatiently; she snorts and stomps a hoof as soon as she sees them to let them know they're late.

"Yeah, yeah, miss thang, we hear ya," Daryl snorts back. Streak huffs and tosses her head with a whinny, laying her ears back and snaking her head over the gate at them. Daryl taps her on her nose, snorting loudly at her, and the filly huffs but grudgingly settles.

"I know ya wanna run," the trainer soothes as he unlatches the gate and swings it inward. Streak barely backs far enough out of the way; filling the gap as soon as it's wide enough and towering over them both. At eighteen hands high, she's just as tall as Devil On Earth, and every inch her sire's progeny. She's already carried on his legacy, blowing away every misconception Rick's heard that fillies couldn't run just as well as colts. It was the Belmont that defeated the stallion though, and that's only a few weeks away - and that's only  _ if _ Streak gets through the Derby and the Preakness first. She's made it to the Triple Crown Races - now she has to conquer them the same way she's dominated every other race she's run.

"We're leavin' soon, yeah?" Rick leans forward and rests his forehead against Streak's face, breathing in her scent with a smile. She nudges him hard enough to make his eyes water when she clips his nose, and he laughs as he steps back to give her the space she's asked for. She prances through the gate, her head high and her tail flagging slightly just to show how pleased she is with herself.

"Save it fer th' victory circle, diva," Daryl chuckles. They lead her across the gravel driveway together, the filly between them already looking around like she's trying to spot the trailer. Rick has never in his life seen a more intelligent beast, and he can't help but scratch over her shoulder and side until she sighs and swings her massive head around to look at him.

"Yeah, you're a beauty," he croons. She preens, sighing again against his hand when she nudges it. Rick's distracted when he hears Buck and Belle come racing around from the back of the barn with Axel following close behind them. The heeler and his new hound friend are a tangle of limbs and wagging tails, their panting loud and excited as they tussle across the driveway; they grunt and yip as they both try to come out on top.

"I'll take care of them while y'all are gone," Axel promises. He looks so earnest, and Rick can't help but smile. It's tinged with something that aches like sadness in his chest, because he's met men and women like Axel before. They're not as damaged as Daryl was when he first showed up on Rick's doorstep, but his anxiety clearly stems from something someone has done or said to him in the past. He's a gnarled tangle of emotions, so knotted up inside that it's going to take time and patience to unravel him. They've already started, Beth especially, and in just a few weeks Rick can already see some of the knots beginning to loosen.

"Can you do me another favor?" Rick asks. When Axel looks at him with wide eyes, nodding quickly, the archer reaches out with exaggerated slowness to rest his hand on the smaller man's shoulder. "Daryl says you have a bit of background in equine massage. Can you take a look at Sky while we're gone? He's been acting a bit sore, and his gait is off."

"Sure thing, mister Rick!" Axel nods so hard Rick worries he'll hurt himself, and he can't help but be touched by Axel’s eagerness to help a horse he hasn't had much contact with. The only time he seems completely at ease is with Belle at his side, or laying in the pastures with the horses. It reminds Rick of Daryl, because even now, over a year later, his lover comes alive around the animals in a way he never will around most people.

"Have fun, man." Daryl grips the nape of Axel’s neck gently and bumps their foreheads together. Watching them, Rick thinks of documentaries he's seen of wolves. It strikes him as something calming and reassuring simultaneously, and it seems to help Axel relax, if nothing else.

"May the winds dance her forward and the earth stabilize her journey," Axel murmurs with a smile. He hugs Daryl, squeezing the trainer tightly and refusing to let go until Daryl squeezes him back in a hug that's almost as tight. His pale eyes narrow at Rick, daring him to comment, but Rick just smiles indulgently and holds onto Streak while the filly sways impatiently beside him. When she finally headbutts his shoulder, almost knocking him over, Daryl sees and manages to squirm free. Maggie and Glenn are already loading tack into their car, and Sasha is hauling Streak's racing saddle from the barn.

"May yer days be warm an' yer nights peaceful," Daryl murmurs in reply. He scratches Buck behind his ears and strokes down Belle's slender muzzle before loping toward the trailer. Rick follows, and the ramp is barely touching the ground when Streak's meager thread of patience snaps. She nearly drags Rick along beside her, her determination to get loaded up and on her way palpable, and Rick chuckles as he quick-ties her lead rope to the tie loop. The filly is already digging into her hay bag, any concerns inconsequential in the face of a snack and the prospect of doing what she loves.

Rick locks up the trailer and waves goodbye to everyone staying behind before he slides into the driver's seat and looks over at Daryl. His lover is lipping a cigarette out of the pack, and he pauses in the act of bringing up the lighter when he sees the expression on Rick's face.

"What?" he grunts before flicking the lighter to ignite the small flame. He sucks in the nicotine, the cherry tip glowing, and turns his head to blow the cloud out the window. When he turns around again, he slouches in his seat and eyes Rick. "Th' fuck ya lookin' at me like that f'r?"

"I love watching you suck on a stick," Rick deadpans, and Daryl chokes on his next lungful of smoke. He spits the toxic cloud out in wispy spurts that disperse against his red cheeks and catch in his hair; pounding ineffectively at his chest until Rick hands him a bottle of water to try and help.

" _ Dick _ ," the man rasps hoarsely as soon as his airway is clear and his lungs can draw enough air. Rick smiles unapologetically, winking at the trainer and pulling the truck and trailer out ahead of Glenn's car as they start the ten-hour drive to Churchill Downs.

"I love you," Rick replies with a laugh. He takes the cigarette when Daryl thrusts it toward him, flicking some excess ash out the window before fitting it in the corner of his mouth. Daryl glares at him without heat in his glittering eyes. "I'm sorry, but it's not often I get to pull one over on you, darlin'. I get in my fun when I can."

"I'll show ya fuckin'  _ fun _ ," Daryl sneers. He can't hold onto his angry expression for long, his lips covering his teeth and pulling into a smile as his head rolls back against the seat. Rick focuses mainly on the roads, watching the leaves blow around wildly as their passing wind whips them into a frenzy. Daryl watches as well, taking the cigarette right from Rick's mouth when the itch for another lungful makes his fingers twitch. Rick lets it go without protest, exhaling slowly and enjoying the burn as it curls past his teeth and the wind snatches it out the open window.

"I never thought this day would come," Rick admits quietly. Daryl hums beside him, flicking the filter out his window and leaning forward to turn off the radio. He doesn't let the silence fall for long before those pale eyes are focused unwaveringly on Rick.

"Never thought she'd see a track?"

"Never thought she'd take a saddle, much less tear through every track she's been put on." Shaking his head, Rick smiles. He can hear Streak kicking around in the trailer, and he glances quickly in the rear view mirror before focusing on traffic again. "Never thought I'd find someone willing to deal with my problem child, much less stick around for other reasons. You're a hell of a guy, you know that?"

"Ain't no different than no one else," Daryl mutters. He sinks lower in his seat, one booted heel propped up on the dashboard and his fingers tapping his knees. As Rick watches between checking the flow of the traffic, a thumbnail slides past his chapped lips and his teeth dig into the cuticle.

"A year later, and you still don't see just how fucking incredible you are." Rick lays his hand over Daryl's, stilling his anxious fingers. He chews the inside of his lip, sighing through his nose and well aware that Daryl is watching from the corner of his eye. "You did more in two months than I've seen some men manage in years of working with horses." Daryl looks at him fully at that, his eyes wide but warm. His thumb rests against his lower lip, teeth still snagged on the nail, but Rick has his full attention. "You've shown me things I never realized existed - or that I never believed could."

Rick's scalp prickles warmly, the feeling that follows sending tingles down his spine and arms. It's like being wrapped in a warm summer day, and he can almost swear he smells leaf litter and rich earth - that he can hear the faint, quiet howl of a wolf and the scream of an eagle.

"I know it does now," he chuckles. Daryl tilts his head back again, swallowing thickly, and Rick sees the bob of his Adam’s apple from the corner of his eye. "What does it feel like for you?" he asks curiously. Will it be the same feeling Rick gets every time - the one he doesn't know how to describe just to himself, much less put into actual words that would make any sense?

"Th' closest thing I ev'r found ta bein' home," Daryl murmurs. His hand falls back to his lap, the tension that had begun coiling through him smoothing away until he's relaxed and loose again. "Smells like horses an' feels like wind runnin' through my hair. Feels like bein' out in th' forests again, without a goddamn care in th' world."

"I still don't really know how it works." Rick shakes his head with a wry smile, and Daryl grunts. "I know what I feel though, and honestly, that's enough for me."

"Some shit just ain't meant ta be explained." Daryl finally opens his eyes, looking straight at Rick and catching the rancher in a stare that peels back the layers of humanity and society until there's nothing left but the wild. "Shit don't need labels all th' time," he goes on. "When ya try ta put it in a box like that, ya lose everythin' it is. Take away it's freedom, ya take away th' thing that makes it unique. It just is what it is. S'all it ever needs ta be."

No one has ever summed it up so beautifully. It doesn't give Rick any more of an idea just what it is about Daryl that makes him so fucking incredible - whether it  _ is _ magic or something else entirely - but when his lover puts it like that, it doesn't really  _ matter _ . Daryl is who he is, and he does amazing things that leaves Rick stunned and more in love every day.

Rick loves Daryl, and he knows that Daryl loves him. Anything else is just a bonus.

\--

Churchill Downs is  _ insane _ , even a week before the Derby Race. Several horses probably won't arrive until closer to the race day, but some of the owners coming from farther away have the same idea as Rick. There's only a few horses in the barn so far, but spectators are coming from all across the country. Reporters are camped outside of the stables, cameras rolling and microphones being thrust beneath the noses of men and women walking by. Some are leading horses, and Rick sees a colt with a chain bit looped through his mouth. He jerks and tries to rear while the woman holding onto him shoulders her way through the crowd of electronics and sharply-dressed human vultures.

Daryl hisses and swings up out of the truck. Rick leans over and grabs his legs, trying to help balance him, and his lover's voice rings loud and clear and  _ pissed _ above the noise.

" _ Back th' fuck up! _ "

People turn to look at them, and Rick lets go when Daryl jumps down. His ears still faintly ringing from the volume Daryl had shouted at, he slides back over the middle consul and kicks his door open with little finesse. Daryl is already stalking toward the reporters, so Rick hurries to catch up with the irate trainer and doesn't even bother trying to close his door.

"Th' fuck's wrong with y'all?" Daryl barks as he advances on the wide-eyed group. "We're tryin' ta unload these horses  _ safely _ . Can't fuckin' do that with y'all squawkin' an' crowdin' 'em. So back th' fuck off, let 'em by, an' learn some goddamn patience. An'  _ get that fuckin' camera out'a my face! _ "

"Guys, be smart about this," Rick adds. He puts his hand on Daryl's shoulder, his skin buzzing hotly in a way that feels too much like the trainer to be anything but. Daryl is  _ furious _ \- he always is when greed wins out over common sense in people. "Some of these horses aren't exactly friendly, and some of them have come a long way." Streak backs up his calm words with an angry scream, and the bay colt with the chain bit screams back before swinging his hindquarters around and barrel-kicking the wall. The crack echoes through the sudden silence, and the colt screams again before the trainer holding onto him manages to get him farther down the aisle and into his stall.

"If you want your stories, wait until things are calmer." Rick's voice carries strongly, his words quiet but full of a force that cannot be easily ignored. The reporters don't look happy at all, but thankfully some race officials arrive with security to help escort them away. Daryl is still angry, glaring at them as they leave; Rick's squeezes the trainer's shoulder and croons low in his throat before letting his hand brush soothingly down his lover's back.

"That was quite a spectacle."

The voice is raspy and soft, and it belongs to a beautiful dark-skinned woman. Her long dreadlocks are pulled back into a thick ponytail, her suit sharp but already dusty. Her hands are covered in horse dirt and there's a smudge of it across one cheek. Her dark eyes are dancing, her full lips pulled into a crooked smile.

"That wasn't exactly what I was expecting when I showed up," she chuckles. Rick smiles and nods, and her eyes turn calculating when she looks him over from the top of his curls to the bottoms of his dust-covered cowboy boots. 

"Yeah, well, shouldn't have fuckin' been here at all," Daryl grumbles. He's relaxing now that the commotion is over, leaning back into Rick's touch and releasing his lingering tension with a long sigh. " _ God _ , reporters are so goddamn stupid."

"I'm not going to argue with that," the woman agrees with a slow nod. She looks like the kind of woman who doesn't take shit from anyone, and her clothes tell Rick that it doesn't matter what she's wearing - her horses come first. She sees him looking, sizing her up the way she did him, and her grin warms further. "I'm guessin' you're here for the Triple." Stepping closer, she holds out a hand. "Name's Michonne Williams."

"Rick Grimes." He shakes her hand, feeling familiar calluses and relaxing a little further. Daryl grunts, still glaring after the reporters, and Rick bumps their shoulders gently. "This is Daryl. The unholy beast making a racket in the trailer is our girl."

Recognition dawns on Michonne's face, and her smile is wide enough to show her teeth. "So that's the infamous Devil? This is probably the closest I've ever gotten to her. My boys are usually all the way across the barn from her, and Ty likes to check out the others more than I do. I've always been a fan of seeing them in action rather than taking a guess just from sight alone. Sometimes looks can be deceiving."

"Yeah, it can be." Nodding, Rick turns to look at the trailer. Streak finds the window and sticks her muzzle out, her nostrils flaring. She snorts and grunts at them, a sound Rick doesn't often hear, and he chuckles at her impatience. When Maggie pulls the car up alongside his truck and they all pile out, Sasha is the first to notice who they're standing with.

"'Chonne!"

"Hey, Sash," the woman laughs. Rick and Daryl watch as the jockey runs across the driveway and hits the woman hard enough to make Michonne huff. They hug, laughing, and Rick glances at his lover curiously.

"Damn, I haven't seen you in a while! Can't even say hi yourself, woman; gotta send my greetings through Ty!" Sasha leans back, still holding onto Michonne's arms, and shakes her head at the other woman. Glenn and Maggie watch from beside the car, looking about as confused as Rick feels. Sasha finally seems to notice their combined curiosity, and her grin is bashful when she looks at all of them.

"Rick, you met my brother, Tyreese," she says. Rick nods, remembering the burly man with the gentle smile. "This is his wife, Michonne. She's the owner of Meadow's Edge Stables."

"Gypsy Dancer's owner," Rick nods. "I remember him." He smiles sheepishly at Michonne, his shrug apologetic. "I generally remember the horses better than the people. I do remember your husband, though."

"Most people do, generally because he's such a giant and he's known for his gentleness," Michonne agrees. Her eyes are warm, and Rick can see a love in her that reminds him of his love for Daryl - something whole and pure and strong.

"Who got a place in the Triple?" Sasha asks with interest. "Did Gypsy make it?"

"Nah, he's back at the stable. Run on Home's here, though. That's who Louisa was trying to bring in through the sea of idiots. Good thing your man has a strong set of lungs on him."

"I  _ hate _ idiots," Daryl mutters. Rick feels fingers press against his lower back, and then Daryl is cutting back across the driveway to unload Streak and get her into her stall so she can quiet down and eat her supper. Sasha goes to help him after hugging Michonne again, leaving the two owners standing side by side.

"He's good at what he does," she says before the silence can settle too much. Rick nods, smiling as he watches Daryl back Streak off the trailer. "And she's a  _ big _ filly," Michonne adds with a quiet laugh. "She's got heart, that's for sure."

"That's one word for it," Rick agrees with a longsuffering shake of his head when Streak rears. She's wound up by all of the noise and tension, and he sees Daryl's feet leave the ground a few inches before his lover uses his weight to bring her back down. He strokes down her face, murmuring too softly for Rick to hear, and they watch her calm beneath his touches.

"He really is incredible with them," Michonne murmurs. "I'd ask what his secret is, but this trade is built on secrets. We all have our special ways of training, and we're not in the habit of sharing. It's what makes our horses unique in their own special ways."

"So that colt was yours?" Rick nods toward the stable, where the colt is silent in his stall now that he's tucked away and has time to calm down. "He seems lively."

Michonne smiles, tucking her hands in her pockets. "Only when he's travelling," she agrees. "Otherwise he's one of the sweetest beasts you've ever met. What about your girl? Sasha loves her - probably gushes about as much as she bitches. No offense."

"None taken," Rick chuckles. "That's generally the relationship she has with everyone. Only one she really behaves for is Daryl. He may as well be her baby." He gestures to where the filly is walking placidly down the aisle behind Daryl, her lead rope loose in the trainer's hand. Sasha is behind him with the saddle and a bag thrown over her shoulder. "I should go help them. It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Williams."

"Just Michonne is fine, Rick. We're practically family already." Her eyes twinkle, and Michonne gives him a respectful nod that he returns. "May the best horse win."

"May they all run true regardless," Rick agrees, and he sees the surprise flash across her face before a smile takes its place.

"Have a good day, Rick."

Nodding again, Rick turns toward the car to help Glenn finish unloading the rest of the tack. It's not the last time they see Michonne during the days before the race. She's as much hands-on with her horses as Rick is, it seems. She's also much more relaxed out of her 'fancy getup', as she put it while they were bringing flakes of hay from storage for their horses. Run on Home - Babble, as they call him - has been put just a few stalls down from Streak, so the colt and Rick's filly pass their time screaming back and forth at each other. It's been driving everyone else insane, much to Michonne's amusement.

"They're friends," she snorts the day before the race, after another groom slinks away with his tail between his legs. He'd tried to bluff the woman into muzzling her colt, and Rick had found satisfaction in the verbal lashing the no-nonsense owner had given the man until he'd crept away to lick his wounds. He found out very quickly that he'd been right in thinking that Michonne doesn't take shit from anyone. She's almost the polar opposite of Tyreese, whom Babble seems to absolutely adore. He follows the gentle giant the same way Streak follows Daryl, and although the colt is an easy seventeen hands, he seems so much smaller when he's standing next to the groom.

"Unusual friends," Rick chuckles. "Her only other real friend is her pasture mate. We call her Lays."

"Lazy girl?" Michonne smiles wide enough to show her teeth. Rick sees Daryl heading their way and nods to his lover.

"Only until she really gets goin'," Rick replies with a grin of his own. Daryl slides into place beside him and nods at Michonne. His pale eyes bore into Rick with an intensity that puts the rancher on alert, and he straightens from his relaxed slouch. "What's up?"

"Need yer help quick," Daryl mumbles. He's already walking away, so Rick nods to Michonne and sees the knowing gleam in her eyes as she waves them off. Rick follows his lover, frowning when Daryl leads him outside and around the side of the barn. It's quiet and secluded, and realization dawns a second before hands fist in his shirt and Daryl's mouth slams against his. Rick kisses back instantly, his tongue curling in when Daryl opens his mouth to groan raggedly. Turning them, he presses his lover against the wall and pins him with his hands on Daryl's hips. Daryl growls and bites at his mouth, trying to make the kiss harsh and dirty until Rick rumbles and forces him to slow down. Daryl's anger slips away like water through fingers, and once he's pliant under Rick's hands, the rancher kisses him one more time, their lips dragging together gently.

"Jealousy doesn't suit you, darlin'," he murmurs while Daryl pants and glares at him. Fingers tangle in his hair and yank him closer, and their next kiss is an angry, artless mashing of mouths that's more out of intention to bruise and leave a visible reminder. Rick growls and bites Daryl's lip hard enough to make him yelp; licking over the hurt and kissing it tenderly until Daryl relaxes from his newest fit of anger.

"Jus' remindin' ya," his lover grumbles. Rick bumps their foreheads together gently and nuzzles his nose against Daryl's.

"You're never gonna need to remind me of whose side I belong by," Rick promises with a smile. "I love you, Daryl. Your fire, your intelligence; your ferocity and the wildness in you. I love all of it, and it's all  _ you _ . Nothing's gonna change that, much less the wife of my jockey's brother."

Daryl thumps his head back against the wall, looking shy and uncomfortable suddenly. Rick can understand why, since his lover has never been prone to fits of jealousy that led to him dragging Rick into a quiet corner. Brushing the younger man's bangs back from his face, he tilts Daryl's chin up until those darting eyes are focused on his face again.

"That is one thing I will  _ never _ do to you," he whispers fiercely. "I know how shitty it feels, and Daryl, I love you too fuckin' much to ever even  _ entertain _ the notion."

"I know," Daryl mumbles. "Swear I do, Rick. M'just..."

"Lots of tension," Rick supplies, and Daryl nods. "It's a big race, and people are idiots. We've got this, my wild sky. No one's gonna touch her."

"Damn right." Looking more relaxed than he has in a few days, Daryl smiles crookedly at him. Rick leans in again, listening for the quick, quiet hitch in his lover's breath when their lips hover barely an inch apart.

"Bit of pre-race luck?" he murmurs. Daryl snorts, but he tilts his head in acceptance and sighs when Rick brushes their lips together; once, twice,  _ again _ , and then he kisses Daryl properly. He cradles the man's jaw and the base of his skull, and Daryl fists a hand in his curls, the other wrinkling the fabric between his shoulder blades. Rick's skin buzzes warmly, the scent of the forest and crisp water tickling his nose until they step apart.

"That damn filly don' need no luck," Daryl huffs. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are bright, and he's the most gorgeous sight Rick has ever laid eyes on.

"True," he agrees with a chuckle. "That was more for me, honestly. After tomorrow, we can celebrate  _ properly _ ."

It's a pleasure to watch how Daryl shivers at the deep, suggestive timber those words come wrapped in, his eyes squeezing shut as he blows out a forceful breath through his nose. "Asshole," he growls, but Rick can see the smile he's trying to fight.

"You love it," Rick reminds him. He rests the backs of his fingers against Daryl's cheek, feeling the warmth rolling off the man. "And I love you, darlin'," he adds.

"More with every breath I take,  _ agigau _ ," Daryl murmurs. He turns his head and kisses Rick's fingers, his eyes slitting open to watch Rick through his lashes, and the rancher feels his blood warming as desire rolls through him like a slow, patient wave. He'd love nothing more than to pin Daryl to their hotel bed and show his lover all the ways Rick adores and worships every inch of him like his own private deity. But right now, they have a few more preparations to make before tomorrow rolls around and Streak runs the Triple.

_ Later _ , he promises himself, and Daryl smirks like he knows exactly what Rick's thinking before they turn and head toward the front of the barn, their shoulders bumping and their hands brushing until the trainer takes his and squeezes quickly. Rick squeezes back, their fingers clinging like static or magnets until distance temporarily breaks the connection and Daryl vanishes into the barn.

Brushing shavings off his shirt, Rick steels himself and heads toward the reporters to let them mob him with questions and the bright flash of cameras.

\--

The buzzer blares shrilly, the gates fly open, and twenty horses leap out onto the track to the excited roar of the crowd. Rick looks up at the television broadcasting the race, searching the pack, and he sees Streak against the fence. His filly's legs are a blur, and the thunder of hoofbeats is louder than he can ever remember it being before. It's like the horses themselves know what's at stake here, and they're giving it their all - more than they ever have before.

A gap opens up and Streak swerves for it, snaking her way between two colts and slipping from eighth place to sixth. Another colt comes up behind her, his jockey urging him to go faster, and Daryl hisses furiously beside Rick.

"Don' ya fuckin' dare," he spits quietly. Rick strains to try and see Streak out on the track itself, but they're still too far away, so he turns his attention to the areal footage playing out on the big screen. He watches as the horses come up to the first turn and the colt riding Streak's tail sneaks up alongside her. Rick sees when Sasha's head turns slightly as the chestnut's shoulder bumps up against Streak's. The crowd is watching, shouts and jeers aimed toward rider and horse alike as the jockey tries to use his horse to force Streak back up against the railing and pin her in. The horses around them are widening the gap to help, and whether it's intentional or not, Rick doesn't care.

"Don't let them box you in, Sasha," he growls. He watches as she tries to coax Streak into the opening, and the filly fights her. She tosses her head, black mane whipping wildly, and swings around to bite at the colt shoving her over. She kicks out her hind hooves at the ones behind her, forcing them to fall back further. As they all watch on, she becomes the unholy demon she's named for. She's screaming and fighting - lunging with intent to  _ maim _ until the jockey has no choice but to pull his horse back or risk serious injury to either himself, his colt, or both of them.

As soon as Streak has an opening, she breaks free. Sasha releases the tension on her reins half a mile before she was meant to, because Streak is too enraged to be held back any longer. She's  _ furious _ , Rick can see it crystal clear on the screen as the horses come closer to the final curve.

Run on Home is leading by two lengths when Streak overtakes him, sweat gleaming on her sides and her body fully extended. It's all Sasha can do to hold on, and Rick sees how low she is in the saddle as she does her best to stay seated and move with Streak. The filly pulls ahead of the bay colt and puts more and more distance between them, ripping around the final curve and thundering toward the finish markers as the other horses struggle to try and keep up with her.

Rick's filly blurs across the finish line seven lengths in front of Run on Home. She doesn't slow down - refuses to be caught until she's damn well ready to stop. She spins in tight circles, and Rick's over the railing with Daryl a second behind right as she rears up. He jumps and grabs the reins as soon as he makes it to her side, using his weight to pull her back down and get all four hooves on the track. She gnashes her teeth at him, the bit clacking between them as she screams and sprays foamy saliva all over the front of his shirt.

"I know, little devil, I know," he croons. He uses Daryl's nickname for her, hoping it will be enough to chase away the fury clouding her mind. He can see the whites of her eyes as they roll wildly, her neck muscles straining, and then Daryl is resting his hand on her heaving flank and crooning to the filly in a language passed down to him from his mother; one as ancient as the oldest trees and as beautiful as the forest that still stand tall and proud while the rest of the world slowly crumbles. Rick hears the air hum and smiles. He feels how it buzzes with a familiar warmth against his skin, and he can tell when Streak starts to calm beneath their combined touches. The haze clears from her eyes, and she looks at Rick - snorts and lips at his shirt like nothing's wrong, and he can't help but laugh as he feeds her treats and rubs between her ears and down her broad forehead over her silk mask.

"I'm so fuckin' proud of you, you goddamn beauty," he praises. Daryl laughs, low and rough, and buries his hands in her mane as he looks at Rick with bright eyes.

"She fuckin' did it," his lover breathes, and Rick shares in Daryl's excitement, feeling it reverbreate in his chest like it's his own.

"Yeah she did," he chuckles. Streak nudges Daryl's shoulder, spraying saliva on him as well, and the trainer laughs as he helps Sasha down. "You okay?" Rick asks her as soon as her boots are safely in the dirt, and she nods with a dazzling smile.

"Never better," she laughs, her voice light and breathy. "Thought I was a goner for a minute there, but she's a clever girl. She figured it out."

"I'll say." Rick grips the reins firmly, clicking his tongue, and Streak lifts her head proudly while the fans in the stands finish clapping and cheering. He laughs at her showing off, patting the filly's shoulder.  "C'mon, you damn gorgeous filly. There's a winner's circle with your name on it."

Once her tantrum is over, Streak is happy to be led off the dirt track and into the circle where reporters and officials are waiting to congratulate them on a race well run. Rick is grinning so widely his cheeks hurt. Daryl's smile is smaller, but he looks so damn proud, and Rick swears he can see the shimmer of tears in his lover's eyes. They share a look, a mutual understanding passing between them, and Rick glances toward the beautiful, cloudless sky and sends up a heartfelt  _ thank you _ to whoever or whatever may be watching right now.

"Mr. Grimes?"

Looking at the reporter, Rick stands tall and proud while Streak drops her head down between their shoulders and Daryl reaches up to pet her with a smile. Sasha's back in the saddle again for photographers to get the shots they want. Rubbing his knuckles under Streak's quivering chin, Rick presses a kiss to her sweaty cheek and breathes in her scent. He hears Daryl do the same on the other side, and Streak sighs happily. Rick pats her again and finally turns to let the reporter ask her questions, still riding high on his filly's victory in the first leg of the Triple Crown Races.

Two down, one to go.

\--

The door slams shut behind them, and Rick already has Daryl's shirt most of the way unbuttoned before the backs of the trainer's knees even hit the bed. The man lets himself be pushed back, both of them ignoring the rip and pop of stitches tearing as Rick drags his own shirt over his head and throws it to the side. Naked from the waist up, he kneels on the edge of the mattress and slides his body over Daryl's until their swollen mouths meet and their bare, damp chests press together.

"I love you so fuckin' much it hurts to breathe, darlin'," Rick rumbles against Daryl's chin before kissing him again. Their tongues battle even as Daryl's legs spread to welcome Rick between them. Their groins roll together, their passion on the same wavelength the way it's been for so long already. Rick holds Daryl's face in place while his lover's nails leave thin red lines down his back that burn in the best way. Rick's groan is low and guttural; Daryl's answering moan is rough and sets Rick's blood on fire. The passion between them burns like a flame that grows stronger every day - something with enough force to take out the entire East coast but tempered enough not to burn anyone that gets too close. It's a balance they've perfected through months of memorizing each other, and it's how they've learned to read one another so well.

Rick knows exactly what Daryl wants when his lover's spine bows up in a graceful arch, his head tipped back against the sheets and his wrist pressed against his open, panting mouth to try and stifle his sounds. The rancher bites the gorgeous point of one hip, sucking a mark that makes Daryl shudder and groan through clenched teeth. His cock is a hard, hot line trapped beneath his slacks. Rick nuzzles against it, feeling how it twitches and inhaling deeply to smell his lover's rich, musky scent.

" _ Agigau _ ," Daryl moans. Rick grins and unbuckles the trainer's belt; dragging down the zipper with agonizing slowness until Daryl hisses out a frustrated noise and locks his knees around either side of Rick's ribcage. "Take 'em off or so fuckin' help me, Rick, I'll punch ya in th' fuckin' face."

"I love when you talk sweet to me," Rick chuckles. Daryl's head thumps back against the pillow and he snarls wordlessly in frustration, his nails digging into the sheets. Rick decides to quit teasing, so he yanks Daryl's slacks and boxers down in one go, baring him to the rancher's hungry, loving gaze. He can't help but stroke his palm across Daryl's chest and thumb at a nipple, and the man shudders beneath him. Pale blue eyes bore into him, and Rick watches the pupils blow out until those captivating irises are completely swallowed by desire and a love so powerful it buffets at Rick like churning seas and soothes him like the gentle kiss of flower petals at the same time. Daryl's passion is ferocious in its intensity, and gentle enough that Rick never fears hurting himself when he crashes against it like opposing forces meeting to settle in harmony.

Fingers wet, he teases and presses past clenching muscles to reaffirm his home inside the younger man's body. Daryl accepts him easily, gasping and arching as the base of his skull digs into the pillows. One hand fists the the sheets, the other tangling through Rick's curls and dragging him down until their mouths meet and the rancher swallows Daryl's worshipful moans. There's something different about this time, and it's not until Daryl moans again, the noise strangled like he's trying to hold it in and swallow it back down, that Rick realizes what it is.

Daryl is not usually a vocal lover. He's quiet and reserved, holding onto Rick and gasping or panting and vocalizing more on occasion but rarely letting go enough to be completely unrestrained. He never enjoys himself any less, he's just quiet. Now, he's trying to hide his noises in Rick's shoulder as the rancher prepares him. He's gasping out hot, wet breaths and scraping his teeth against the rancher's skin. He leaves several marks before turning his head to mouth at Rick's jaw until their lips meet and they can kiss properly.

"I love you," Rick whispers. "I love you so much." He kisses Daryl again and again, swallowing his moans - drinking them like sacramental wine and feeling the way Daryl's presence expands to blanket every inch of Rick's conscience. He feels the tightness around his fingers and the scrape of Daryl's beard against his own when the trainer nuzzles up his jaw to pant softly in his ear.

"All m'heart, all m'light, an' all m'life," he gasps. His skin is twitching, his body rolling in a sinuous wave, and he shudders as Rick's fingers curl just to see the way his hips jerk in response. "Fuck, Rick,  _ now _ . Don' make me wait anymore." His voice cracks slightly, his nails digging in a little harder, and the rancher knows it's time.

"Never," he promises, and Daryl shoves his face against the rancher's throat as Rick sinks perfectly into his lover and Daryl's nails dig into his back hard enough to draw blood. They roll together, their bodies moving like waves cresting and the moon rolling through Her endless cycles. They fall in and out of each other again and again, and they're always brought together to explode into something dazzling and wholly  _ theirs _ . They're fireworks exploding against a starry sky - an avalanche breaking away from its hold and gathering force as they thunder down a snowy mountainside. They soar together like eagles and dive toward the ground before rising again seconds before impact.

Rick has never known this kind of love. He's never known just how beautiful one man could make the world until Daryl Dixon walked into his life and brought a magic unlike anything Rick had ever heard of before. He brought a wary heart and a battered soul, and he laid them both in Rick's cupped palms and begged him not to damage them further. There's a beauty in him that's only matched by his desperate longing to never be caged - to never be kept behind walls that remind him that his life is not his own, for all that he might be told otherwise.

Rick will never cage Daryl. He will never clip his wings or wrap a collar around his throat. He loves the wild freedom that flows through his lover's veins and charges the air around him. He loves every single thing about Daryl, and he always will.

Daryl's moan starts off quiet, but it fractures and spills past his lips in a swelling crescendo until Rick kisses him and accepts the noise into his own lungs. He offers his own moan in return, and Daryl wraps his arms around the rancher's shoulders, holding him close and painting his devotion across Rick's twitching, overheated skin as they climb down from the precipice together and settle into comfort with gentle kisses and soft touches. They fall asleep wrapped around one another, with Rick's head on Daryl's chest. He drifts off listening to the trainer's heartbeat, and sleeps with the love of his life pressing a kiss to the crown of his head even in slumber.

Outside, all of Louisville celebrates a successful Derby and buzzes with excitement at the possibility of a Triple Crown champion after so many years without one. Inside a borrowed hotel room, far from the wilds of Georgia where they met, two men dream of one another while the energies that had brought them together meld just a little more; a magic unknown by many twining their destinies and blessing them with the kiss of a gentle breeze through an open window.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took some time thanks to sickness, internet issues, and just life generally getting in the way - BUT HERE IT IS, MY LOVELY ONES. 8D Major kudos to katytheinspiredworkaholic, who just churned through the last three chapters tonight to beta them. She is a beast and a darling, and I adore her greatly.
> 
> I shall stop rambling now.
> 
> ENJOY
> 
> AND ALSO ENJOY THE BEAUTIFUL FUCKIN' ASTHETIC the-pri-experience MADE FOR ME!!! THANK YOU SO MUCH MADAME PRI! *shrieks and flails*

Rick feels like he blinks and they're in Baltimore, looking up at Pimlico race track and listening to the sounds of the city as it buzzes with growing excitement and anticipation. They're a week early again, and Streak is more than ready to be taken off the trailer and be put into a stall - or turned out into a pasture, which is what Rick has been contemplating since they first reached Maryland. The filly is becoming unbearable again when she's forced to stay cooped up for too long. If they were at home, it wouldn't matter; she lives in her pasture with Lays, grazing and running free. But when they're on the road like this, especially with the Triple Crown Races being so close together, they don't have that luxury.

"Climb out'a yer head, cowboy," Daryl murmurs next to his ear. "Yer gon' get lost in there if ya ain't careful."

"I'm gonna get trampled to death by a pissed off filly if she doesn't get some grass time soon," Rick retorts with a chuckle. Daryl grins, and Rick reaches up to rub his thumb against one of his lover's dimples. "C'mon, let's get everything unloaded and get her into a turn-out pasture, if they let us. It won't be perfect, but it's better than nothing."

Daryl kisses his thumb before turning to call out to Abraham. The farrier walks over from where he's been standing beside his jeep, his thumbs tucked in his belt loops and grinning from ear to ear.

"Fancy place," he comments. He looks around, from the barn to the nearby track and raises his eyebrows suggestively. "A man could get lost in all the glory. Better hold onto your balls, gentlemen. Don't need anyone takin' advantage of your wide-eyed innocence."

"Fuck you, Ford," Daryl bites back, but he's still grinning. "Ain't gonna get robbed, asshole."

"Yeah, probably not. They'd take one look at that dirty face and run cryin' to their mommas," Abraham laughs. He ducks to avoid the wad of paper towels Daryl throws at his face, and continues to laugh the whole way back to his car.

"Prick," Daryl grumbles again, but he looks too amused to actually mean it. "Fucker acts like I don' know my ass from a hole in th' floor."

"The joys of being friends with Abraham Ford," Rick agrees with a quiet huff. "C'mon," he adds, nodding toward the impressive barn looming in front of them. "Let's go check out our girl's temporary home and see about getting her some pasture time. After that, I think you and I might be able to slip away for a little while and enjoy the sights."

"Oh yeah?" Daryl follows him down the covered forebay, checking each stall they pass until they reach the one with Streak's name on it. Rick takes a moment to look at the plaque, soaking in the atmosphere and imagining he can hear the echoing thunder of hoof-beats from those who have raced here before. The entire area is rich with history and energy that hums and crackles with anticipation as it wraps around them. They breathe it deep into their lungs with every inhale, and exhale their own wisps of energy that twine into the rest; leaving a faint reminder of their time here for those who will come later. Maybe somewhere down the road, men and women with beliefs that match Daryl's will breathe in this same air and sense Rick's love and passion as it intertwines with his lover's to form a connection stronger than anyone outside of them could hope to understand. It was their love and passion for horses that brought them into each other's orbits, and it's their love for one another that grew from that foundation that will keep them strong.

"What'd I say 'bout gettin' lost in yer head, _agigau_?" Daryl teases. Rick grins sheepishly and goes to help the trainer unload their tack trunk. It's a heavy trunk made of solid black walnut, with the insignia for Rick's ranch plated in copper on the lid and along the sides. Abraham built it for him - the man's first act of friendship after Rick stumbled across him looking for work and extended an offer for the farrier to come see his horses. At the time, he'd just wanted to help out. After one time turned into a regular occurrence, they cemented their friendship and Abraham built him his tack trunk for Christmas the following year. Carol lined the inside of it and they stained it together, and Rick will never stop smiling when he thinks of what kind of effect just one small act of kindness can have. It starts as a ripple that travels across the surface of someone's awareness until it bounces off another person and ripples back - forever different because of it.

"An' yer still doin' it. What's goin' on in that head'a yers?"

"Sorry, darlin'." Focusing himself in the present, Rick helps carry the heavy trunk into their designated storage area. They get it set up and move out of the way so that Abraham and Carol can haul in the feed and buckets while Sasha brings the saddle and silks. "Was just thinkin' of good memories. Don't worry, I'm not gonna get lost in the darkness." While they're still somewhat secluded, he leans in and kisses Daryl's cheek, humming softly when his lover turns his head to make it a proper kiss. Daryl tastes like cigarette smoke and peppermint gum, and Rick licks the odd combination of flavors out of the trainer's mouth until Daryl makes a soft noise and pushes him back with a gentle hand.

"Ain't time ta celebrate yet, cowboy," he chastises with twinkling eyes. Rick laughs as they step out into the sunlight together and Streak whinnies shrilly to remind them that she's still cooped up in the trailer and that she's ready to be _free_ now, thank you very much.

"What about a date then?" Rick asks as they go to unload the filly. Daryl drops the loading ramp and Rick jumps up into the trailer itself. Streak snorts at him, stamping a hoof hard enough to make the floor vibrate. The resulting boom reverberates like thunder around the enclosed space, and Rick winces before he hurries to untie the horse and get her out into the open air. She's unusually agitated, and he can't tell if it's because she's racing again so soon after winning the Derby, or if there's something else setting her on edge.

"Depends on what ya have in mind," Daryl murmurs as he follows them back into the barn. He rests a hand on Streak's flank to help settle her, and the filly blows out a loud snort as she dances sideways impatiently. Once she's in her temporary stall, she voices her displeasure and swings her hind end around to kick at the wall.

"That's enough, little devil," Daryl rumbles. "Soon as we can talk ta someone official, we'll see 'bout gettin' ya some grass." Streak lays her ears back at him; he clucks his tongue and offers a treat, but the filly turns away and flicks her tail like she's disrupting flies that may or may not be trying to bite.

"Oh, is that how it is?" Rick snorts. Streak purposefully ignores him, and the two men share an amused grin before leaving her to sulk. Carol waves them off when they come to see what else needs to be done, so they head out to park the trailer away from the barn so that anyone else who might be showing up in the next several days for the race can unload their horses easily.

"You gonna tell me what ya have in mind f'r this _date_?" Daryl asks while Rick is carefully backing up into an out-of-the-way spot. He focuses on his mirrors, making sure he's not going to bump into anything, and once they're safely parked and the keys are out of the ignition he turns to look at Daryl. His lover is trying not to fidget and not really succeeding. His fingers are tapping over his knees, which are bouncing as he looks out the front windshield. As Rick watches, he bites his lower lip until the skin around the press of his teeth is white.

"Do you not want to?" Rick tilts his head and reaches out to rest his hand over one of Daryl's. He presses down gently until the man's knee stops bouncing and tilts his head forward a little more to get those pale, averted eyes fixed on his face. "We don't have to if you're uncomfortable with it, Daryl."

"Ain't that," the trainer mutters. Scowling, he shakes his head quickly and drags his free hand back through his long, tangled hair. "Ain't that I don't wanna, Rick. S'just... was a'ways just you an' me, b'fore. Weren't no people, no big cities. Jus' us an', y'know, nature."

"There weren't crowds," Rick supplies, hitting the heart of the issue Daryl is trying to skirt carefully around. "It'll be a whole new environment for us," he goes on when Daryl nods slowly. "If you'd rather we pretend to be just two friends hanging out somewhere, darlin', that's okay."

"Ya shouldn't have ta fuckin' do that!" Daryl slams his palm against the dashboard hard enough that Rick winces. His lover looks furious with himself, and it breaks Rick's heart. He's seen how far Daryl has come already - he also knows that there's a lot of painful history stretching back behind his lover. He may not have many physical scars from those years, but the emotional scars are arguably worse.

"I'll do whatever you need me to do," Rick says quietly. He gently encircles Daryl's wrist, bringing the younger man's hand closer to check his palm. Daryl hit it so hard that the skin is red, so he brushes his fingertips against the irritation before pressing a soft kiss to the base of his lover's palm. "This isn't a one-way street, darlin'," he murmurs. Looking up from where he's hunched over, he sees Daryl watching him with clear anguish carved into his features. "None of that now, my wild sky." Cupping the side of Daryl's face, he smiles at him and watches relaxation ease some of the turmoil that should never darken those pale, beautiful eyes. "I won't stand for you beatin' yourself up for somethin' you can't help, you hear me?"

"Wasn't this hard after th' Breeder's Juvenile," Daryl whispers harshly. "Shouldn't be this fuckin' hard now."

"Different circumstances," Rick replies without judgment. "Daryl, relationships are an _equal_ partnership. Either we're both comfortable, or it's not happenin'."

"What'd ya have in mind f'r this date?" Daryl finally asks again, after they've sat in comfortable silence for a few moments. Rick has pulled back, letting the trainer relax and settle into his decision on his own. If he decides the crowds will be too much, then Rick will completely respect that. They can always find a quiet spot and enjoy each other's company. It'll be perfect either way for him so long as he's with Daryl.

"The Baltimore Aquarium is only a few miles down the road," Rick says with a smile. Daryl looks at him with surprise, clearly not expecting that the suggestion. "I haven't been to an aquarium in years. Thought maybe you'd like to see it with me."

"Ain't never been ta an aquarium," Daryl admits softly. He shifts and leans further back in his seat, chewing the side of his thumb until Rick gently pulls it away from his mouth. He can see the childlike wonder starting to shine in his lover's eyes as he cranes his head - like looking out the window at just the right angle will make the aquarium loom out of the nearby buildings. "Never had money f'r shit like that," he adds.

"I went on a school trip." Rick leans back in his seat and looks out the windshield as well. "It was a lot of fun, even if Shane and I were havin' a disagreement. I had to deal with his grumpy silence and glares. That man can freeze your blood if he looks at you like that."

"Had a temper?" Daryl rolls his head enough to glance at Rick, the downward tilt of his lips making him look slightly unimpressed. He still hasn't forgiven the man and Lori for what they did. He's kept it mostly to himself because he's seen how happy Rick has been, and he's promised that he can play nice if he meets them, but he's not happy with them. Rick finds that he's okay with that, because seeing how fiercely protective Daryl gets of those he considers close friends and family is more of a testament to his loyalty than any words could ever be.

" _Has_ ," Rick corrects with a quiet chuff of laughter. "He's gotten better about it as we've gotten older, but that man could turn someone to stone if he glares hard enough. He's always been that way, and trust me, his loyalty always wins out in the end." The rancher smiles knowingly at Daryl, who rolls his eyes but smiles gently back.

"So ya wanna go look at fish f'r a date," his lover teases him, and Rick grins.

"And the sharks. Maybe a dolphin or two. And hey, I've heard coral is pretty fascinating," he quips back. Daryl's laugh is a low, rich rumble that echoes in the small space of the cab and reverberates across Rick's skin. It sinks in deep, settling in his bones, and he closes his eyes to soak it in for a moment before smiling crookedly.

"So, what do you say, darlin'? Wanna go look at some fish with me?"

"Yeah," Daryl snorts. His eyes are soft, his smile gentle, and his fingers brush shyly across the back of Rick's hand like they're new lover's instead of firmly settled in their partnership. "Le's go look at some fish."

\--

The aquarium has a much bigger crowd than Rick was expecting - or hoping - to see. People must be pouring in for the race; sharing the same thought as some of the owners bringing their horses early to avoid the late rush of arrivals. If it's not that, then Baltimore just has a lot more people than he'd thought. Either way, the press of bodies at the door makes Daryl stick close to his side, the trainer's shoulder knocking hard against his as they slowly make their way into the aquarium. He can see how tightly the other man is clenching his jaw, his eyes narrowed to slits as he breathes carefully. When Rick uses the forced closeness to rest his fingers against the hammering pulse in Daryl's wrist, squeezing gently and offering comfort, his lover lets out a slow, shuddering breath. After a moment, Daryl shifts and grabs Rick's hand, giving it a quick squeeze before the crowd thins out and they enter the building properly. With tickets in hand, they find a map and look it over, neither of them feeling the need to say anything as their eyes rove over the different rooms and exhibits.

"Wanna see th' sharks," Daryl finally mutters. Rick smiles and nods, already deciding to let Daryl lead this particular date. He'll be more than happy to follow the younger man all over the aquarium, watching him take in everything and enjoying an afternoon of fun and relaxation before the anticipation of the race grows too much and the tensions sets in. Daryl nods back, smiling shyly, and Rick can see the glimmers of the same wonder and eagerness he'd seen when they were sitting in the truck.  The closer they get to the shark room, the more excited Daryl seems to become. It's still muted to anyone who doesn't know his lover, but to Rick it looks like Daryl is glowing. He slowly becomes more animated, his steps quickening and his eyes sparkling as the crowds get smaller. People are breaking off into groups and wandering all over the aquarium to see whatever it is that draws their attention, everyone minding their own business and focusing solely on the aquatic creatures that call this place home.

The shark room is enormous, the glass crystal clear and lit by the lights inside of the massive tanks. Rick can't even imagine what it must takes to maintain that kind of environment, but it's a quick thought that flutters through his mind before it's gone. He's too focused on Daryl, who has his hands hovering over the glass like he's afraid to touch it - like by leaving his handprints behind he'll be breaking some sacred rule and he's not willing to risk it. His eyes are wide, his face lit by the rippling blue water on the other side of the tanks. He's so focused on the sharks swimming by that Rick isn't sure he's aware of the rest of the world around them right now. He doesn't even realize that there are information plaques detailing the sharks he's enamored with, so Rick reads the closest ones to them quickly before he looks in at the beautiful, deadly creatures swimming slowly by.

Rick takes in the room at a glance, noting the way it goes up, with tanks on three of the four walls and a ramp that leads up to the next levels. There are dark, wooden panels that break up the exhibits - or is it all one giant enclosure? - to give it a different kind of aesthetic look. It certainly sets the mood, because the overhead and wall lights are dimmed to help with the feeling of being surrounded on all sides by clear, deep blue water. It paints across their skin in rippling, constantly-flowing patterns that transform Daryl in a way that's mesmerizing. Rick has only ever seen him surrounded by trees and the wild nature of Georgia. This is an entirely new experience for both of them, and Rick drinks it in with a satisfied smile.

" _Look_ ," Daryl breathes, and Rick turns to see a massive tiger shark swimming by just a few feet from the glass. Its small, black eyes are taking in everything, and Rick feels like it's watching them - sizing up a possible predator, or perhaps wondering about the strange, alien bodies that are constantly watching it. What must it think about the strange, foreign creatures that constantly gape at it from behind the safety of thick glass? Or maybe it just doesn't care. Maybe it doesn't even recognize them as anything but an insignificant speck in the much greater scheme of its life.

"What're them things on its belly?" his lover asks, looking at him with wide eyes. "The fish stickin' to it. What're they?"

Rick checks the plaque and smiles. "They're called remoras, I guess. They clean off old skin and parasites, and in return they get protection."

"So they're like a parasite themselves," Daryl snorts. He looks at the shark again, the light reflecting off his eyes and shining his wonder back into the tank like a mirror - or a beacon. When the trainer starts humming quietly, Rick wonders if Daryl's natural draw for animals includes aquatic creatures as well. When another shark comes closer, and then another, all of them swimming past lazily and looking relaxed as they drift by, he has to assume that it really is more than just horses and dogs - and old, healing ranchers - that flock to his lover.

After the sharks, they visit the dolphins. Daryl clicks at them, the sound high and faintly squeaky, and Rick muffles his laughter the best he can. There are others around them trying to emulate the echolocation as well, but none of them are quite as proficient at it as Daryl. The younger man glares at him, but there's no anger lurking in those pale, dazzling eyes. He's like a kid turned loose in a candy shop - or a tack shop. When Daryl passes close enough to him for Rick to breathe in his lover's rich, musky scent, the rancher smells leather and the special soap he'd used to clean Streak's racing saddle. The mix is alluring when combined with his natural scents, and Rick can't help but reach out and squeeze the trainer's fingers. He keeps it between them, his body blocking the affectionate, intimate touch from the distracted view of others, and Daryl's smile is sweet and beautiful before he's eagerly leading the way to the next room.

Rick has never had so much fun away from the horses. They visit the room full of pools that are filled with creatures they can touch and hold, and Rick smiles warmly at the face Daryl makes when a stingray glides beneath his palm. After that, they spend over an hour looking at the much smaller tanks that are home to vibrant, beautiful fish. It's absolutely mind-boggling to think that the ocean could hold so many different kinds of life. Rick hasn't been to the beach in years, but after seeing the innocent wonder that Daryl has for everything, and the way he traces his fingers across the pristine glass of a tank for the school of clownfish inside to follow, he's tempted to take his lover one day. They won't be able to see anything close to what they're looking at now, but the scent of the sea and the cry of the gulls - hell, just a day of fun and relaxation, and the perk of Daryl in wet swim trunks - will be more than worth it. He can't get the image out of his head; it's still with him by the time they find the aquarium’s café and get themselves some drinks and sandwiches.

"Lost in yer head again, huh?" Daryl's low, amused voice breaks through his thoughts, and the trainer chuckles at the startled look he's given. Rick grins sheepishly over the rim of his cup, taking a drink rather than trying to defend himself. Those pale, twinkling eyes turn mischievous, and Daryl folds his arms on top of the small table they've claimed as their own; leaning forward and looking Rick over slowly from top to as far down as his eyes can wander suggestively.

"Well, gonna share wit' th' class?"

"Just thinkin' of you in swim trunks," Rick replies innocently once Daryl has picked up his own cup to take another drink. He chokes, and Rick takes another bite of his sandwich while Daryl thumps his chest and coughs to try and clear his airway.

"Fuckin' _asshole_ ," he wheezes, glaring at Rick. Unable to quell the amusement bubbling warmly in his chest, Rick lets it trickle free until he's covering his mouth to try and stifle his laughter and people at the tables around them are giving both men annoyed looks.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," Rick finally murmurs once he's got himself under some semblance of control. "I was thinkin' of us takin' a day trip to the beach," he admits after Daryl's breathing is mostly normal and he's wiped away the soda he'd coughed up when Rick caught him off guard. "You're havin' such a good time here, it made me wonder what it'd be like if we actually went to see the ocean. We wouldn't see any of this," he gestures around to encompass the whole aquarium, "but it still might be fun."

With cheeks that are slightly pink, Daryl looks down and away. He glances at Rick through his lashes and blinks slowly, the corners of his mouth hitching up into a shy smile.

"M'gonna be happy no matter where we go, s'long as I'm there with ya," he whispers. He's always so quiet about his affection when they're around others. He's come out of his shell a lot around the rest of their makeshift family, but in situations where there are possibly judgmental glances being cast their way, he retreats to a safe distance and yearns from afar. It reminds Rick of a fruit that's fallen from the tree while the others remain bunched together, and he doesn't like that. He doesn't like his lover thinking he needs to pine when Rick is so close. He'd rather be the fruit that fell after to nestle up against the other and keep him from being alone.

It's a strange metaphor, even in his own mind, but it rings with a truth he can't shake. It makes him hurry through the last of his sandwich, the flavors that had once seemed so vibrant now dulled in comparison to the sweetness of the man sitting across from him. Daryl is picking at the last scraps of his own sandwich, eating with his fingers and sucking the dressing from them - without seeming to realize what it does to Rick when he's forced to sit surrounded by strangers and watch the trainer's lips purse around his knuckles as he cleans them.

"Where were you thinkin' about checkin' out next?" Rick asks when he can't take anymore. He shifts and bumps their knees together, the table too small and their legs too long to really avoid it unless they're consciously trying. Daryl's teeth flash when he smiles shyly, and Rick grins back as he deliberately traps one of his lover's knees between both his own and squeezes gently.

"Kinda wanna see th' harbor," Daryl admits with a wistful look that makes Rick's stomach flutter warmly. "An' th' battleship.”

"Sounds perfect to me,” the rancher agrees, because there's never anywhere he'd rather be than with Daryl by his side - no matter what they're doing.

They clean up their trash and meander their way through the rest of the aquarium, lingering over certain exhibits and bypassing ones that don't really catch their interest. Rick buys Daryl a hat in the gift shop, and a stuffed shark that the younger man tucks under his arm with a tiny smile that hits Rick deep in his bones and reverberates through him like drumbeats. How can a single person become the focus of his entire universe with just the smallest shifts and glances? What is it that makes Daryl so different than anyone else - what's made him different since the first day, when Rick saw the feral, beaten mutt before curiosity compelled him to look deeper? He can't really explain it, and if he's honest with himself, he has no desire to try. Daryl is a man that defies labels. He's an enigma that Rick has been desperate to solve, and peeling back the layers to see what hides beneath just makes him even more fascinated. He falls more in love with every smile and quiet chuff - their hands brushing together with every odd step as they leave the aquarium together and squint against the bright sunlight.

"Ship or paddleboats?" Daryl asks quietly.

"Paddleboats," Rick replies with a cheeky grin. "Then no one can bitch or whine when I kiss you, or maybe hold your hand."

Daryl's laugh is soft and gruff, his eyes twinkling and his smile crooked.

"Paddleboats it is."

This is definitely one of the best days they've ever had.

\--

Streak is not happy. She fights it when they try to lead her to the open paddock to tack her up, jerking her head and rearing enough that she lifts Daryl off the ground by several inches in the aisle until his weight brings her back down. Trainer and owner share a glance, and they decide without needing words to put her back in her stall and tack her up there. Sasha is getting the saddle weighed one more time before the race starts, so it's just the two of them with Streak between them blowing heavily and snorting. She doesn't act out as they get her mask on and lay the racing silks and saddle pad across her back. Sasha shows up with the saddle while Daryl is slipping the bridle over the filly's head, and the jockey finishes getting her ready while they step back and wait.

Streak bites down on the wood of her door _hard_ and whinnies. A few colts answer back - Rick recognizes Michonne's distinctive dreadlocks as the owner leads Run on Home out of the barn and toward the open paddock. She glances back at them, but Rick can't make out the expression on her face with the way sunlight spills into the barn.

"C'mon," Daryl murmurs. He leads her out of her stall and down the aisle, trying to keep Streak calm by humming while the filly stamps and dances impatiently beside him. Rick and Sasha follow, watching how the last of the stragglers wisely step out of the way when they see how Streak's eyes are wide and rolling.

Sasha swings up into the saddle as soon as they're in the paddock, letting Daryl continue to lead her and the filly around with the other horses until it's time for them to head through the tunnel and out onto the track.

"Number 4 today, ladies and gentlemen - Devil's Pride, by Devil on Earth; out of Mind Your Business by Winding Trail!"

There isn't a person in the stands that doesn't know exactly who Rick's filly is by now, and the deafening cheers and whistles are gratifying and humbling on several levels. Rick always knew that his temperamental filly had it in her to be one of the Greats, he just never expected the reactions she's gotten from so many different people every place they've gone. She's a filly racing with the colts, and everyone knows that the colts mature faster. They hit their stride before the girls do, and they surge forward while the fillies grow into their own at a more sedate pace.

A filly has never won the Triple Crown. Rags To Riches came the closest, but she came in second in the Preakness. Rachel Alexandra won the Oaks, and the Preakness, but she never made it to the Belmont. If Streak wins the Preakness, she'll make history all on her own. She'll be the first filly to win the first two legs of the Triple Crown Races - two races set only two weeks apart. It's a lot for any horse, colt _or_ filly, but Rick can see the fire in his girl when Sasha gets her up onto the dirt track. He can see her muscles jumping and the ferocity in her eyes as she dances out of reach of the rider and pony when they come to lead her to the gate. Rick holds his breath until she comes within reach again and allows them to guide her along. She does this every single time, it's practically her trademark, but it's still nerve-wracking to see. He's terrified that one of these times, she'll refuse to come back - that her wildness will get the better of her and she'll take off before anyone can catch her. It hasn't happened yet, but knowing his filly, it could at a moment's notice.

When the gate closes behind her, Rick lets out a relieved sigh and twists his program into a wrinkled tube. Daryl's fingers brush lightly over his knuckles; there's a gentle smile on his lover's face when Rick looks at him.

"Don' get lost. She needs whatever ya c'n give her," the trainer murmurs. Rick feels warmth prickle through him from head to toe; rushing through his blood and heating him up until he feels like he's being wrapped in a hug that reminds him of a warm, wild summer day. It's wind through calf-high grasses and the faint, sweet scent of wildflowers that tickles his nose when he breathes in. He smells sweat and musk and moss, and he smiles at Daryl. Those pale eyes smile back, as clear and unhindered as a river flowing its course. It fills Rick to the brim, pulling him along as he floats with the gentle current to wherever destiny and their path might lead them.

"Never gonna be lost with you beside me," Rick promises, leaning close to whisper the words into Daryl's ear and well aware that they might be visible on the jumbo television. For that reason, he keeps things professional, and Daryl's grateful warmth is like a gentle brush at the edge of his awareness.

The blare of the buzzer cuts off whatever reply his lover might have made, and they turn quickly to watch as the gates fly open and all nine horses race toward the possibility of victory. Run On Home takes the lead instantly, with a chestnut hot on his heels. When he glances at the jumbotron, he sees Streak holding steady in fourth place. His filly is sticking to the outside of the pack; Sasha learned her lesson from the Derby, and something tells Rick that blood will be spilled today if anyone tries to force Streak to go somewhere she doesn't want to be.

The Preakness is just slightly shorter than the Derby. The Belmont is by far the longest, and they have three weeks to get her ready for the final Triple Crown race if she makes it through the Preakness. Even if she doesn't win, she can still run in the Belmont, but Rick has a feeling that Streak will become a nightmare worse than even her sire if a colt beats her today.

Today, blessedly, the race is a fast, clean run. No one tries anything underhanded, everyone too focused on the horses giving it their all. Sasha loosens the reigns half a mile from the finish markers, and Streak surges forward with a speed that surprises even Rick. He never thought it was possible for his filly to go faster than she already has - or maybe it's just his own eagerness and anticipation playing tricks on him. Once she has that freedom, she becomes nothing but a blink-and-you-miss-it flash of darkness that surges past the other horses. She overtakes Run On Home in seconds, the pounding of her hoof-beats against the track loud enough to remind Rick of thunder. His filly is like her own force of nature; a hurricane that tears up the track and sends dirt and mud flying back to splatter against the hides of her opponents. They could never hope to catch up with her, not when she's already so far ahead and putting even more distance between them and herself.

Devil's Pride really is like a hurricane. She was so small when she was born, nothing more than a pure black spot against her dam's paler side. Just like a hurricane, she picked up speed and ferocity as she got older until she was something people chose to flee from and watch from afar with horrified fascination. No one wanted to get near her - no one could, not safely at least. She became Rick's sole responsibility, his tempestuous little demon that took after her sire in every single way. Rick never met Devil On Earth, but he heard enough about the stallion's infamous temper to know that he was looking at a then-miniature copy of Devil the day Streak turned six months old and she tore a trainer's shirt sleeve and skin right off his arm when he tried to force a halter over her head.

Time _can_ change some things. It's changed Streak - not her temper, but it's certainly enhanced her drive and motivation to win tenfold. Time has changed Rick. It has healed wounds he'd thought might never stop aching and repaired bonds he'd assumed were broken beyond salvation.

Time has certainly changed _Daryl_ , who showed up at Rick's ranch and crept along the outskirts of their ragtag family like a feral mutt waiting for scraps of affection or an angry shout. Daryl will never admit it, or accept it, but he brought an energy and _life_ to Grimes Ranch that none of them even realized they were missing until the shy trainer peered at them from beneath the brim of a Stetson hat. Even though he was so wary, he still carried something incredible inside of him that spread like a fire, igniting them each in turn until they were a crackling blaze emanating from a fixed point - planets orbiting around their own personal sun in the form of a man with eyes like summer skies and a magic spilling from him that so few possess anymore.

Daryl took one look at Streak and knew the filly better than anyone else who ever laid eyes on her. Even Rick never had the connection with his filly the trainer formed almost from day one - not until Daryl showed him how to speak to the horses and understand what they said in return.

Streak is a one in a million kind of horse. She's touched the lives of everyone who knew her - left scars on those who sought to control and break her and became a lamb for the ones who treated her with the respect and honor she deserved. She's unlike any other horse Rick has ever had, and probably unlike any he'll have throughout the rest of his life. She's his little devil, his pride and joy - his enormous black demon with the speed of the winds and a fire in her soul that cannot be extinguished.

When she crosses the finish line, Devil's Pride is eight lengths ahead of Run On Home. Sasha slows her from a gallop to a canter, and the filly holds her head and tail high as she preens beneath the attention she's receiving. People are shouting and clapping, wound into a frenzy by the startling end to the race. Rick can barely hear himself think above the noise; can hardly hear Daryl's victorious whistle even though his lover is right beside him. When he turns to look at the trainer, Daryl's eyes are lit by the sun. He's grinning so wide it has to hurt, but he doesn't even seem to notice. His attention keeps jumping from Rick to Streak, who has finally slowed to a walk and is allowing the rider and pony assigned to her lead her from the track.

"She's the most fuckin' incredible beast I've ev'r seen," Daryl rasps in Rick's ear when they grasp hands and pull each other into a hug. They keep it professional, well aware of the cameras being aimed toward them, but hidden alongside Rick's cheek, his own warm and rasping against Rick's beard in a way that makes the rancher shiver, his lover has a little bit of freedom.

"You're the most fuckin' incredible man I've ever met," Rick replies, grinning when Daryl lets out a hot, wet breath against his ear. "My gorgeous, wild sky."

"Agigau," Daryl breathes - a soft, sweet sigh of air that Rick barely hears. It's more of a feeling, something that warms him from deep in his soul and spreads through him. His skin prickles, his scalp tingling, and when they step apart he sees the faint blush crawling across his lover's cheeks.

"Two down, one to go." Laughing because he doesn't know how else to react other than throwing his arms up and cheering, Rick leads the way from their seats so they can join Sasha and Streak in the winner's circle. The last thing he wants to do is drone through another interview, but he knows it's expected. He'd rather be tucked away in the barn, walking Streak to cool her down and trading heated looks with Daryl until they can slip away for their own private celebration. He wants to feel their skin glide together, their pants and moans echoing through their hotel room as they come together again and again and let their passion spiral higher until they're as close to flying as they'll ever get.

"Focus, cowboy," Daryl rumbles at his shoulder. Heat is rolling off his lover in waves that sear Rick's skin and make it feel tight and hot. He feels like he's standing too close to a fire, hovering just on the boundary of far enough away and close enough to get burned. Daryl is a bonfire Rick would gladly leap into, because he knows that the heat will caress rather than destroy, and he'll come out unharmed on the other side.

"That's easier said than done with you bein' so fuckin' gorgeous," Rick mutters out of the corner of his mouth. Daryl doesn't get a chance to reply, because they're in the winner's circle and a microphone is already being shoved toward them. Rick answers the questions with a polite smile, trying not to fidget too noticeably. They all laugh together, with Daryl a silent, watchful presence at his shoulder.

"Mr. Dixon," the reporter says before they're released to leave. He lowers his microphone slightly, something in his eyes that raises the hairs on the back of Rick's neck and makes him angle himself enough to stand just slightly in front of his lover.

"Yeah?" Daryl eyes him before turning to the reporter. Rick watches from the corner of his eye as the trainer draws himself up a little more, his broad shoulders tense and his spine straight.

"You're the son of the late William Dixon, aren't you?"

Rick sees Daryl's jaw clench, and he turns a hard stare to the reporter. The cameraman is slowly lowering his camera from his shoulder, looking confused and uncertain. The atmosphere changes in an instant, the air becoming as close to cold as it can. Rick is amazed he can't see his breath when he looks between the reporter and the cameraman.

"Is there a reason behind this question?" Rick asks with forced calm. The reporter dips his head, looking at Daryl in a way he does not like at all.

"I was just curious about Mr. Dixon's training methods, and how they might differ from his father's - or how they might be similar." There's a false smile on the man's face that doesn't match the look in his eyes. "William Dixon was known for a particular brand of breaking, as was his oldest son. Do you emulate any of their methods?"

"No, I don'," Daryl growls. His fists are clenched, shoved into his pockets to try and hide his reaction to having his father's legacy thrown so blatantly in his face. The cameraman isn't recording at all anymore, and Rick can read his discomfort as easily as he can sense his lover's brewing anger.

"Was there a particular training style that you chose instead?"

"Follow a lot'a Monty Roberts' teachin's," Daryl retorts. "A'ways thought breakin' through pain an' fear wasn't even considered trainin'. Was just brutality an' bullshit. I ain't my father. Ain't _ever_ gonna be like him." His voice is dangerously quiet, and the words crack like a whip - like the stinging lash of a riding crop against a horse's hide. "We done here?"

"We are," the reporter nods. He smiles, and it's much more friendly this time. It helps the coldness bleed away, the warm day trickling back in and wrapping around them like a blanket of stifling humidity. It might only be late May, but it's already warmer than Rick was expecting it to be. Or maybe it just feels that way because of how frigid the air around Daryl becomes when his lover is tense.

"You've done an incredible job with her," the man says in an effort to diffuse what was almost a very ugly situation. "It's easy to see that she loves you both very much, and she _lives_ to run. Do you think she has what it takes to win the Triple Crown?"

Daryl lifts his head high, his muscles relaxed and his eyes sparking with determination and the fierce wildness Rick saw in him on day one. "I know she does," he grunts, and then he's walking away. Rick nods and follows him quickly, listening to Sasha cluck her tongue to coax Streak into leaving the winner's circle as well.

"He was just bein' a dick, darlin'," he murmurs as soon as he's side by side with Daryl. They're out of the sight of cameras, ignored by most of the people walking by, so he doesn't hesitate to reach out and take the trainer's hand. "Breathe, I got you."

"That fuckin' asshole deserves ta have his teeth knocked in," Daryl growls. He's still simmering under the surface, even if he appears outwardly calm. "No fuckin' right bringin' up that son of a bitch. Ain't _never_ been like him."

There's more to this than just the mention of being like his father, and Rick knows it. Merle's death is still fresh and new for Daryl, and having someone slander his brother - even if it was just his training methods - must feel like taking a two-by-four to the heart.

"He was trying to get a rise, though god only knows why." Rick brings Daryl's hand up to his mouth and kisses over the man's knuckles, trying to calm him. "Anyone who knows you _knows_ that you'd never do anything to hurt an animal. Breathe, Daryl. We've got you."

"I'm reporting that asshole," Sasha adds fiercely. The jockey looks ready to turn around and go beat the piss out of the reporter. Streak is reacting to their emotions, tossing her head and snorting angrily. Rick croons low in his throat, trying to soothe all of them. Daryl is the first to relax, letting go of his anger with a low, slow sigh. He stops for a moment to lean against Rick, taking the comfort the rancher freely gives his lover.

"He doesn't know you," he murmurs against Daryl's temple. "He doesn't know a single thing about you but what he wanted to know. Don't let that defeat you, darlin'. You've come too damn far."

"Don' get lost in th' darkness," Daryl muses quietly. Rick smiles and presses a kiss into the trainer's hair.

"Otherwise you forget to look for the light," he finishes. And then, quieter but no less heartfelt, "I love you, Daryl."

Daryl smiles at him, warm and fond as he turns his hand to intertwine their fingers properly.

"Love ya too, Rick."

"I'm going to throw up," Sasha announces, but she's laughing when they both turn to glare at her. “You two are too fucking precious for words, did you know that? Seriously, you’re a romance novel in the flesh. You’ve even got the horses added in to make you extra sweet and sugary. They need to make a movie out of this.”

“Shut th’ fuck up,” Daryl grumbles, but Rick can see the smile he’s failing to hide properly, and he bets Sasha can see it too. It’s been a long time since any of them found any real malice or brusqueness in Daryl’s flares of temper. He hasn’t snapped at any of them and meant it in so long that Rick honestly can’t remember the last time he heard Daryl get truly angry before today.

They get Streak cooled down and back in her stall, where Maggie and Glenn already have her dinner and fresh water waiting for her. They all stand around and watch her eat, winding down after the incredible day. When Glenn laughs softly, sounding awestruck and amazed, Rick glances at the groom with a curious smile.

“I can’t believe it, y’know?” the young man says with a shake of his head. “I remember when she broke the damn fences every other day and made us chase her all over the ranch. Shit, I got so pissed when she broke the fences in North Paddock two hours after I fixed them from the _las_ t time she’d done it. And now look at her. She’s a _champion_ . She’s won _two_ legs of the Triple Crown. Even if she doesn’t make it the whole way, she’s still made history.”

“First filly to ever do it,” Maggie agrees. The woman leans against the door of Streak’s stall and reaches in to pet down the filly’s long, graceful neck. “She’s come farther than I ever thought she would, back in the beginning.” Glancing over at Daryl, she reaches out to squeeze the trainer’s shoulder with a warm, fond smile gentling her pretty features. “You’ve done what we never thought anyone could. You’re a damn miracle worker, Daryl Dixon.”

“M’just a guy that loves trainin’ horses th’  right way,” Daryl mumbles. He ducks his head, too shy to outright accept Maggie’s words but still basking in the praise as they all reach out one by one to rest their hands on him. It’s more contact than he’s ever allowed before, and he doesn’t try to stop them. Rick is the last to touch his lover, and he cups the nape of the younger man’s neck to pull him into a slow, sweet kiss. Daryl kisses back with a sigh that rings in Rick’s ears like contentment.

A year ago, Rick never would have thought this would be his life. He’d started to believe that no one would ever come along who could handle Streak. And now here they are, standing in the barn at Pimlico after his filly’s incredible win. He’s with his family, and the man who has become the love of his life in ways Rick had never even thought would be possible. Daryl is his sun, and his moon; the trees and the rivers and the mountains that make up the wilds of Georgia, all beautifully contained within a soul that resonates alongside his own and brings Rick a peace he’d never imagined possible for himself. All it took was a filly with the soul of a Devil, just like her sire - a foal born with the drive and determination to do what no filly had ever done before.

 _Belmont Park, here we come_ , he thinks with an eager satisfaction he can see mirrored in Daryl’s pale blue eyes when they pull back to look at each other.

 _I hope you’re ready,_ he muses, thinking of the race that looms three weeks away with the promise of victory and defeat that they will _never_ just accept. It's not in their blood to go down without a fight - least of all Streak. _You'd_ **_better_ ** _be ready. ‘Cause we are._


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention I'm rewarding y'all for your continued patience and posting all three chapters tonight?
> 
> 'Cause I am. THANK YOU KATYTHEINSPIREDWORKAHOLIC YOU ARE A GEM
> 
> GUYS the-pri-experience MADE ME ANOTHER ASTHETIC IT'S SO BEAUTIFUL I CAN'T AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH

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"You ready for this?"

Rick looks up from the bridle he's been wrestling with for the last ten minutes. He's ready to chuck the thing against the wall, because he _can't_ _get_ _it_ _untangled_. Streak needs to get tacked up in less than an hour - in her stall, where she can be secure and everyone else will stay safe. She's been an unholy nightmare since she stepped off the trailer at Belmont Park, and she hasn't gotten any better since then. She's got her own special section of the barn thanks to being the Derby and Preakness winner; it's an area that's _guarded_ \- as if his filly really needs to be protected. If anything, it's everyone _else_ that needs to be looked out for.

His brusque, unfairly snappish reply dies on his tongue when he gets a good look at his lover. It gets replaced by something that warms his belly and spreads through him until it feels like his skin is tingling. Daryl looks away shyly, his chin tilted down, and runs a hand through his hair. His  _ short _ hair. It sticks up in soft-looking tufts that Rick just wants to run his fingers through; the sides barely reach his mid-cheek, and the new length just kisses his nape in the back when he turns enough for Rick to see. He wants to feel the strands tickle his palms. It will probably slide through his grasp without tangling now if he were to drag Daryl into a kiss.

Jesus, it looks like Daryl's even  _ shaved _ . His beard and moustache are trimmed and neat again, rather than crawling up his jawline, and Rick has never found himself more dumbfounded or lost for words as he slowly looks his lover up and down. The bridle falls from his limp fingers as he stands, and Daryl watches him with bright eyes that no longer have a protective curtain to hide behind. He's twirling his Stetson with agitated movements, and he only stops when Rick cages the younger man's broad hands between his own and leans forward to kiss him before the trainer can try to say anything.

Daryl kisses back without reservation, tasting like smoke and something sweet - something spicy and wild that Rick licks from his mouth with a quiet rumble that makes the body pressed against his shiver. Daryl makes a soft, rumbling noise deep in his chest that sings across Rick's nerves like the most beautiful melody. He has to break away with a quiet gasp before anyone walks in on something that belongs to just them, and he ducks down to grab the aggravating bridle; stands up slowly - fully aware of the heated,  _ hungry _ look Daryl has trained on him. He can't help but dip back in for another kiss, his free hand cupping the back of Daryl's warm nape. He has to marvel over the difference without the trainer's long hair trapped beneath his palm. Now there's nothing but smooth, eager skin that twitches and shudders beneath his stroking fingers.

"Can you fix this fuckin' thing?" he murmurs against Daryl's lips; smiling sheepishly when the man chuffs in disbelief and steals another sweet kiss that makes heat fizzle through Rick like sparks exploding skyward from a crackling fire. Daryl sighs into his mouth, and it's the most content sound the rancher has ever heard him make.

"Give't here," his lover chuckles. Rick presses their temples together, angling his head so he can watch when Daryl switches the Stetson with the bridle, leaving Rick to hold the hat and watch him twist and turn the tangled mess of reins. He flips it, fiddles, and it unravels like magic between his fingers until he's holding onto the loop of the reins and letting the bridle itself swing lazily back and forth between them like a pendulum.

"You're a godsend, Daryl Dixon," Rick laughs. He takes the fixed bridle and sets the trainer's Stetson back on his head where it belongs with a flourish. Daryl looks at him from beneath the wide brim, his soft lips twitching into a smirk and a hint of pink coloring his cheeks. Even with the old barrier of the Stetson, he still looks more open than he ever did with his bangs to hide him.

"Nah, jus' a good ol' southern boy who knows his way around a bridle. Should'a been an easy fix f'r ya, cowboy. Got yerself all wound up an' distracted."

"Can you blame me?" Rick mutters with a quick huff of laughter and a shake of his head. "C'mon, darlin', I know you feel it."

"Oh, I feel it," Daryl agrees softly. Rick watches him close his eyes - the rise of his chest beneath his grimy tank top as he breathes in deeply. The rancher follows suit, closing his eyes and filling his lungs with the scent of hay and dust and horse. There's something else too, something that prickles like lightning and makes his blood stir in a way he doesn't often find outside of Daryl. The tension and excitement in the air is palpable, and the pressure settles across Rick's shoulders like a boulder barely suspended by outside forces; something waiting to either crush him or roll away harmlessly depending on the outcome of today.

Streak's shrill whinny breaks through the spell of silence like the crack of gunfire, shattering the atmosphere and making Rick jerk. His filly snorts and screams, kicking at her stall walls and glaring across the sturdy door with wide, rolling eyes. Rick croons quietly to her, and Daryl joins in with his own soothing hum even though they know it will do no good. Streak is too wound up - she's been too on edge for days, putting up a fight and making it impossible for anyone to get close to her if they aren't someone she already knows.

"Easy now, little devil," Daryl soothes. He moves away from Rick's side, leaving the space to grow cold but promising with a significant look that he'll come back to fill the spot again when he's done - the place where he's made a steady, unshakeable home for himself.

Rick can't help but reach out and run his fingers through Daryl's hair, feeling how it glides against his calluses in an entirely new, curious way. Even when his lover first found the ranch, his hair wasn't quite this short. It looks good on him, makes him look even younger and lighter when combined with his clean appearance and the eager light that twinkles in his pale, beautiful eyes.

Daryl tilts his head back into the caress, and Rick can see enough of his face to see when Daryl closes his eyes and basks in the affection with a smile. They linger in their interrupted moment for just a little longer, grasping at the fraying edges and trying to hold onto the peace they consistently find in each other until Streak squeals and kicks the back wall so hard Rick swears he hears the window crack.

"A'right, a'right," Daryl huffs at her. She pins her ears back and snakes her head over the door, breathing angrily and snorting at him. "That's enough out'a ya, Devil," the trainer adds gruffly. He holds up the bridle, and Rick sees his eyes narrow slightly. "Ya wanna race, ya pissy creature? Best mind yer manners, then, or else I'll have 'em scratch ya from yer crownin' moment. Want that?"

On some level, Streak must recognize the threat, because she dips her head and blows out a loud sigh. Rick has to cover his mouth to hide his smile, but Daryl has no such qualms. His lover is grinning widely, his pale eyes twinkling, and they share a conspiratorial look before Rick catches sight of Axel coming closer with a bucket of feed. Streak sees him as well and perks up, lifting her head and nickering quietly to the man.

"Uh uh, little miss," the shy man admonishes. "This is for afterwards. Last thing you need in you right now is some grains when you're about to go run such a long race."

"You'll get your celebratory dinner  _ afterwards _ , no matter the outcome," Rick chuckles. His filly huffs and turns her back to them, flicking her tail and stamping a hind hoof to let them know how displeased she is. This is the calmest she's been all week, and Rick will take any moment of peace he can get right now, even if it's temporary and not exactly  _ peaceful _ .

"Sasha almost ready?" he asks Axel. The man nods, chewing nervously on a stalk of hay he's stuck in the corner of his mouth.

"Reckon she'll be along soon enough," he muses. Setting the bucket down, he wipes his palms off on his dirty jeans and looks at Rick. "Thank you for lettin' me come along. It means a lot, gettin' front-row seats to see history."

"Axel, you've more than earned it. And besides, Shane insists that he and Lori will have fun taking care of the horses while we're gone." Rick can't help but smile when he remembers the conversation he'd had with them about it. For all her beauty and the waif-like fragility Lori seems to possess, the woman isn't afraid to get a little dirty when the situation calls for it. He doubts she'll be the one mucking the stalls, but she'll have fun grooming the herd, and Lays will probably be overweight by the time they get home. She seems to be Lori's favorite, from what he saw in the two minutes the woman and his mare interacted.

"Still can' believe they all came," Daryl murmurs when Axel goes to check on the betting stats. Rick knows his filly's odds - she's definitely the favorite to win. With her career so far, if she  _ doesn't _ come in first it'll be one of the biggest shocks of the year. Even if she doesn't - if she decides she's had enough and doesn't even leave the  _ gate _ \- Rick is still prouder of her than he's been of almost any other creature in his care.

"I think they feel the same way Axel does," Rick muses with a lopsided grin. "They all wanna see her big moment in real time; no replays through a television screen."

"Can't blame 'em," Daryl snorts. He scratches Streak's flank, his smile getting softer when she leans into the affectionate touch. She still refuses to look away from the wall, but Rick knows that her love for them is as fathomless as their adoration for her. It's a love that goes deeper than the ocean, and spans the entire universe. It's as breathtaking as comets and as grounding as a mountain. Streak can rage like the most destructive rivers, or lap at them like the gentlest streams. She's as fast as the winds and as determined as the creeks that carve their own paths regardless of what might get in their way.

Rick has never seen a horse with as much determination as his filly. As the time for the race crawls closer, their anticipation makes her impatient. She finally turns around when Sasha shows up wearing her silks and carrying the weighted saddle like it's nothing. The two of them look at each other for a moment, their dark eyes unwavering as something passes between them that only they can decipher. It's for no one else, and Rick doesn't try to pry. He understands the bonds that people and animals form - he has special bonds with every horse he owns, as well as Buck. He's even becoming besotted with Belle, who is the sweetest hound in all of Georgia as far as he's concerned.

"You ready for this?" the jockey murmurs. Streak huffs quietly, her chin trembling slightly as she lowers her head and her forelock falls across her large, unblinking eyes. Sasha smiles and nods, and Rick takes that as his cue to bring the filly out so they can get her ready.

Daryl slips the bridle over Streak's head, petting down her long face slowly before he presses a kiss to her nose. "I'm so damn fuckin' proud'a ya, little devil," he whispers against her sleek fur. She whuffles and lips at his tank top, her ears forward and quivering as she listens to them bustle around her. Abraham checks her hooves one more time while Maggie brushes out her tail. Glenn makes sure the saddle and silks are perfect while Beth gives her coat one last quick groom. With all of them crowded around the massive filly it should be cramped, but they work around each other without bumping elbows. There's not much conversation as they all get their hands on Streak in some way, saying whatever prayers they need and lending her their strength and faith in ways they might not even be fully aware of. Rick can feel it, something that tingles across his skin and under his clothes. It buzzes where he's pressed close to Daryl, that whole side of his body almost unnaturally warm. When he glances at his lover, he sees the way Daryl's eyes are closed; the brim of his Stetson pulled low to partially hide his face. Rick leans just a little closer, just so he can hear the barely-there melody of the song the trainer is humming under his breath. It feels like power and life to Rick - something awe-inspiring and magical that ricochets through him and spreads out line vines to find the rest of their makeshift family. Every single one of them is affected and doesn't even know it, but Rick can see it in the way they move and how warmly they smile.

"Let's get ready ourselves, darlin'," he murmurs in Daryl's ear once Streak is tacked up and waiting on the cross-ties. They brought their suits with them today so they could change quickly without having to go back to the hotel, so while the others fawn over Streak just a little more and she basks in it like dry earth soaking up rain, he and Daryl slip away to get themselves ready for what's coming.

"This is it," his lover murmurs once they're out of sight and undressing quickly. Rick nods, trying to find the words to describe what's racing through his mind but ultimately unable to. There's so many things he could say right now, and none of it comes close to doing his thoughts justice. What he feels cannot be put into words so easily, so in the end he takes Daryl's chin with gentle fingers and kisses his lover with a passion that exceeds his careful touches in leaps and bounds. Daryl kisses back with just as much emotion, the two of them wrapping around one another in mind, body and soul as their worlds meld just a little tighter together and their destinies are sealed with a kiss unlike any they've exchanged before.

Loving Daryl is life-altering in ways Rick never expected it to be. The trainer - his light, his lover, his  _ life _ \- has changed Rick in so many ways he can't come close to listing them all. He doesn't even bother to try, because there's still no words that can come anywhere near describing everything he feels for the man pressed so tightly against him. Daryl's shirt is still unbuttoned and his buckle is undone because Rick couldn't even wait for them to be properly dressed.

When the need for air finally outweighs their mutual desire for one another, Rick pulls back but doesn't go far. He presses their foreheads together, their noses slotted alongside one another so they can nuzzle and steal kisses like newlyweds still stuck in the honeymoon phase.

"I love you so much it hurts to breathe sometimes, Daryl. You know that?" he whispers. He feels his lover's lips curl into a smile against his own as Daryl hums a low note that vibrates across Rick's soul. It sinks so deeply into him that nothing will ever be able to remove it, leaving the rancher feeling like he's floating down the laziest, gentlest river he's ever had the pleasure of submerging himself in.

"I love ya so fuckin' much it's  _ insane _ ," Daryl breathes back. His hands find Rick's face, cradling his jaw, and Rick nuzzles against the calluses on his lover's palms with a quiet, contented sigh. "Didn't know it was possible ta love someone this much, Rick. Didn't know it was ev'r somethin' I'd get ta have. Ya changed m'life in so many ways. More than you'll ev'r know. Yer th' best thing tha's ev'r happened ta me,  _ agigau _ . All my life, th' path I walk will overlap yers - until th' day we draw our last breaths."

"And then we'll find each other again in the next life," Rick murmurs before he pulls Daryl into another kiss. They don't linger now, knowing that time is not in their favor and that they have to finish getting ready before the call to saddle up comes. After the race, no matter the outcome, they'll celebrate with their family. And afterwards, when their corner of the world is warm and sleeping, they'll celebrate with each other; a symphony of quiet moans and frantic gasps as their bodies roll together and sweat glimmers in the moonlight like stars speckled across their skin.

"Ya clean up nice, cowboy," Daryl murmurs while Rick is slipping his jacket on. He grins and makes a point of eyeing Daryl from top to bottom, because this time they're both dressed as close to the nines as country boys from the wild heart of Georgia can be. Rick has worn a suit to every race he's been able to attend, but this is the first time his lover has done the same. The dark burgundy shirt does wonders for him, and the fit of the charcoal pants and vest make Rick's mouth as dry as a desert. With the addition of the jacket, his lover becomes something Rick never imagined. And yet, for as gorgeous as he looks, it's still not quite right.

Daryl has never made his home in high-class society. He's always roamed the lower end of the spectrum, his clothes dirty from hard work and the scent of the wild clinging to his skin like the smoke from his favorite brand of cigarettes. Rick has never seen him so clean before, and when he leans forward to breathe his lover's scent deep into his lungs, he takes comfort in the fact that no matter how nice Daryl looks - and god, does he look  _ nice _ \- he'll never lose that imprint of the horses and the forests. He'll never not be the wild boy that grew into a man side by side with a herd of horses who never knew a halter or a saddle, or the confinement of a stall. He'll always belong in nature, no matter what, and Rick has to kiss him one last time as the call to saddle up finally filters into their hidden alcove.

"Bit'a pre-race luck," he whispers against Daryl's chapped, eager lips, and the trainer huffs fondly before they're forced to abandon their intimate moment and return to the world. They come back to a growing sense of anticipation that makes all of them bright-eyed and impatient, although none of them are anywhere close to how ready to  _ go _ Streak is. She's dancing in place, pulling at the cross-ties and snorting as she hears the other horses being led to the track. Rick is pinned in place by dark, demanding eyes, and he laughs quietly as he unclips her. She doesn't lunge forward, but she isn't exactly docile at his side as he leads the way out to the open paddock. As soon as he stops, Sasha swings up into the saddle and grins down at them.

"How's the weather up there?" Bob chuckles. The jockey laughs and nudges his shoulder with the heel of her boot before finding the stirrups.

"Balmy and bright, lover," she replies with a teasing grin. The rest of them step back to give her space, leaving Rick and Daryl flanking filly and rider on either side. They walk her together, crooning softly to try and keep Streak as calm as they can before it's her turn to walk through the tunnel and onto the track.

Belmont Park is like a hive, buzzing loudly with anticipation and the eager roar of the crowd as they cheer each horse onto the dirt. Rick and Daryl turn Streak loose and watch as Sasha leads her away at an easy trot, the filly's black coat shining in the light. Her head and tail are up, her hooves already churning up the track even though her moment of glory hadn't yet arrived.

"Devil's daughter, through an' through," Daryl laughs as they watch her dance out of reach of the rider and pony before returning to their side and letting them lead her to the gate. He looks at Rick, his eyes glittering with more than either of them can ever say - hidden beneath the brim of his Stetson so that only Rick can see his nerves and elation intertwining to make something so heart wrenchingly beautiful that Rick's breath stutters quickly in his chest. He clears his throat and smiles, bumping his shoulder against his lover's and choosing to let the brief brush of their hands be his reply. Daryl understands him as clearly as if he'd spoken out loud, and they go to find their seats as the rest of the horses are brought to the gates.

Michonne finds them as they're settling in, looking stoic but bright-eyed as she nods to them both. "It's gonna be a good race today," she murmurs. They both nod simultaneously, and her lips finally soften into a smile. "That's one damn amazin' filly you boys have. It's been an honor to know her, and meet you."

"Likewise," Rick agrees heartily. "I definitely wouldn't mind seein' your boy around more often."

"I think we can arrange that." Michonne smiles, and then she's gone and the last gate is closing. There's a moment where the entire crowd goes silent, tense and waiting, and Rick feels the history of the track sink deep into his bones - generations of horses thundering to glory adding an energy that’s humming along his veins. He breathes in slowly, the sound almost deafening to his own ears, and time seems to slow down as the buzzer sounds and the gates slam open. The roar of the crowd is muted to barely a murmur as he watches history unfold.

No one, whether they're man or beast, is born great. Some are born  _ into _ it, while others have it thrust upon them because of circumstances they've faced and conquered. It's a fate anyone can achieve - a destiny that waits for anyone who might stumble across it. Men and women alike aspire for greatness, but no one is born  _ automatically _ great. They can be gifted in ways others are not, but it's their own choices and the paths they walk through their lives that help them ascend to that higher state.

When Rick became a cop, he didn't know if he'd be good at it or not. He didn't know if anything he did would make a difference, so he tried his hardest even when he knew his best still wasn't going to be good enough. He still  _ tried _ , because to him the pain was worth it more than if he'd just stood aside and accepted whatever the outcome would have been otherwise. He saved lives, and occasionally he took them, and at the end of the day he had to live with himself because of the choices that led to both outcomes. When he was shot, it could have been karma - it also could have been the universe's way of telling him it was time for him to take a break. He's never considered himself a saint, but he knows he's a good man. When it comes down to it, he's not a  _ great _ man, but he's exactly what he needs to be, and that's more than enough for him.

The day Streak was born, Rick had no idea what she would become. He didn't know he'd be standing here watching history unfold, because back then he didn't know even  _ half _ of what he knows now. Back then, he just knew he was looking at a newborn filly that was already the size of a two month old - a creature with a hide as black as her sire's and not a speck of her mother's nature to be found.

It was as he watched her grow through those first few months that he began to see her potential. Even then, it was raw and unmolded, spilling from her as she frolicked and ran through the fields while her dam struggled to keep up. It was the first glimmer of something that told him she was going to be something special; she just needed to be guided down the right path. When Daryl showed up in his office, it was like the universe had recognized Rick's needs and delivered the perfect solution right to his doorstep. It gave the rancher exactly what he needed to help Streak grow into what she was meant to be - and heal Rick along the way.

Streak was not born a great horse. She's big, and she has the temper of a demon. She's sassy and opinionated and has no patience for anything resembling stupidity, but with the help of the people who were brought together from all walks of life, she's grown into the horse fate and destiny had determined she could be. She's become  _ great _ , a  _ legend _ , and as soon as she's out of the starting gate, Rick knows they're about to see something  _ incredible _ .

Right from the start, Streak takes the lead. She's a length ahead of everyone else, and she's not even  _ trying _ . Rick has spent weeks watching videos and reading about the horses who have won the Triple Crown Races in the past - from Secretariat to War Admiral to Sir Barton, who was the first ever horse to make history and win them. He's watched the way they ran, and read up on how they were trained. He's looked over the stats of every horse Streak was set to run against today, determined to  _ know _ , because he wanted to make sure she had every possibility in the world to do what she loved to do best - and  _ win _ .

As the horses approach the first curve, Rick feels the history of this place thrum through him like a song as old as the earth itself. He feels the thunder of horses from both today and years past buzzing against his skin. The air is thick with energy that's both new and old, and he breathes it in as Streak comes around the turn and pulls a little farther ahead. Run On Home is trying to sneak up on her, but his filly just puts her head down and  _ flies _ the way she's always been meant to. Rick swears the air around her shimmers with the shadows of multiple horses - flashes of chestnut red and dark bay and solid black that are a blink-and-you-miss-it apparition he's not entirely sure aren't a figment of his imagination. Regardless, he's gripping the railing in front of him so hard his nails are bending back, and Daryl is singing lowly beside him, a rumbling melody that makes the air tremble; his eyes seem to glow from under the protection of his Stetson as his unblinking gaze follows Streak.

Never in his life has Rick felt so grounded and limitless at the same time. His feet are firmly rooted to the wood beneath him, but he's flying over the horses as they give it their all below him; looking down on them from above with the victorious screech of an eagle welling up in his throat. It bubbles up inside of him, mixing with the triumphant howl of a wolf and the proud scream of a mustang, and Daryl's song changes just slightly beside him as they gravitate closer together in the unconscious way they so often do.

When Sasha gives Streak her head, Rick knows it's over. He knows it, and he's pretty sure the onlookers know it too. Their cheers increase, the excitement kicking up into a deafening frenzy as Streak pulls farther and farther ahead. It's like she's possessed by something entirely different than any other time - the determination of her father or perhaps the presence of a horse long ago passed on but never fully gone or forgotten. Her powerful muscles flex, sunlight gleaming off her slick sides, and Daryl's shout startles Rick enough that he jerks and stares at his lover with surprised eyes.

"Tha's it, little devil! Show 'em what they're dealin' with! Show 'em what a filly can  _ really _ do!" Daryl's eyes are bright, power dripping from every word that almost feels  _ real _ enough to burn Rick's skin. It's a welcome ache, like when you stand beside a fire and your skin gets tight and hot, but you're so warm you never even think of stepping away. Rick never will - in fact, he shifts just a bit closer. Daryl grabs his hand without hesitation, their palms pressed together hotly and their attention once more on their filly as she rounds the final curve and flies toward the finish markers with so much space between herself and Run On Home that there's no hope of him overtaking her. She could slow down and  _ walk _ across the finish line and still win, but she won't do that. There's too much Devil in her, too much drive to give it her all - and exceed her own expectations while she blows the rest of them away and leaves them blinking dirt and debris out of their eyes.

In front of thousands of people, and reflected in pixilated form through televisions all across the country, Devil's Pride crosses the finish line at Belmont Park fifteen lengths ahead of the second horse. She thunders across the white checkered lines, ripping up clods of dirt and cementing herself firmly in history as the first filly to ever win the Triple Crown Races. She's done what a few have tried to do before, and succeeded where the fillies before her haven't been able to. She's made history, she's left a mark that can never be erased, and Rick is screaming himself hoarse with tears burning his eyes in the best way. He presses the back of a hand to his mouth and basks in the glory and honor of having a horse that he'd once thought there was no hope for, only to see her turn into something worthy of legends and praise. Streak slows to a canter and turns around to come back, her head up and her tail flagging as she soaks up the thunderous applause. She's showing off a little, and Rick laughs wetly as he wipes his eyes and holds up his hand for his filly.

_ That's my girl _ , he thinks with so much love and fondness that it overflows from him and spills into the stands.  _ That's my beautiful filly. You did it, sweetheart. _ "I'm so fuckin' proud of you," he whispers out loud. "Never gonna have a horse even halfway as incredible again."

"Don' be so sure," Daryl murmurs thickly. Rick turns to him, tears in his eyes again and a smile on his face that aches because it's so wide. He's getting ready to reply, to ask how his lover can be so sure, but Daryl grabs his face and hauls him into one of the most intense kisses they've  _ ever _ shared - and they've shared a  _ lot _ .

Wrapping his arms around the trainer's waist, Rick kisses back with a passion that burns like the sun and soothes like cool rivers. He pours his entire self into it, and Daryl's unrestrained moan is swallowed by the roar and whistles from the crowd when the cameras swing their way and their love is plastered across the jumbotron. They can't even bring themselves to care, because Daryl's arms are around his back and their mouths are sore and probably bruised, but they can't help but kiss each other again and again while Streak rears with a proud scream that echoes through every single horse. They're all whinnying and stamping their hooves, but none are as loud as his little devil when she screams again and paws at the air with hooves streaked with mud. She's run the track that so many phenomenal horses have stepped into before, each one raising the bar a little more for whoever would come along next. Streak may not have run the fastest time, and she may not have won by the largest margin, but she  _ won _ , and no other filly can claim that.

Daryl leans back when Rick's lungs are burning enough that he has spots dancing across his vision once he finally opens his eyes. His lover's blush is beautiful to witness, his passion fading to embarrassment when he realizes just what he's done and where. Rick refuses to let him hide, taking the Stetson from Daryl's head and settling it on his own curls with a grin.

"Never would've come half as far without your help," he says hoarsely. He keeps Daryl from dropping his head, forcing his lover to recognize his words and find the truth brimming in them like fresh mountain creeks. Their love started out like a fragile bud in spring, but it's unfurled into the most gorgeous fucking blossom Rick has ever had the pleasure to hold in his heart and soul. Daryl has filled so many of the holes Rick had never even known were there until the empty aches were gone. When he looks into the man's pale, warm eyes, he knows he's done the same for Daryl.

"I love you so much it hurts to breathe, my wild sky." With thousands of onlookers, and their picture still painted across the jumbotron, Rick brings Daryl into a slower, softer kiss. He brushes their tingling lips together and breathes in Daryl's quiet sigh, flicking just the tip of his tongue out between them to curl it against his lover's upper lip. Daryl shudders against him and Rick pulls back far enough so he can get lost in those gorgeous baby blue eyes again. "You know that?"

"All my life,  _ agigau _ ," Daryl whispers with the reverence of a prayer. "Jus' didn' know when, or how, or  _ why _ . But I knew ya would show up somewhere. Hoped ya'd be jus' what I a'ways needed, even when I was tellin' myself I didn' need a goddamn thing."

"I've needed you all my goddamn life," Rick chuckles. "And you're more than I'd ever hoped for, darlin'. So, now that our girl has slayed the competition, let's go home."

Daryl rests his warm, broad hand over Rick's heart, the gentle pressure grounding and comforting enough that Rick's eyes flutter closed and he hums low in his throat.

"Home's a'ways gonna be  _ here _ ," his lover murmurs. "Ain't no house, no fallible walls an' a roof ov'r our heads."

"It's the wilds of Georgia and the horses," Rick finishes, and Daryl nods. "So let's go home to the place we grew from. I'm kinda fond of it."

"Yeah," Daryl says quietly, his smile small but heartfelt and his energy buzzing against Rick's skin in a way he will never grow tired of feeling. "Me too."

\--

Georgia is no different than when they left, but coming home to the ranch brings a new feeling with it. They're not just coming home to get ready for the next race now; they're coming home to  _ rest _ . Streak has proved her merit as a racehorse. She's honored her sire's legacy and made history in a way that others will be hard-pressed to dispute. If she never wants to race again after this, Rick won't give a damn. He'll retire her and let her live out the rest of her days however she pleases, because she's got no need to prove herself to anyone anymore. She's silenced the critics and the naysayers in a thunderous, wild finale. Now she can be a  _ horse _ , with no concerns and no need to be hauled all over the country for the amusement of others - even if she enjoyed the limelight just as much as the actual racing.

Shane and Lori are waiting on the porch, with Buck sprawled at the bottom of the steps in the sun and Belle sitting between them. The pretty hound is the first to get to them as they're climbing out of their cars, with Buck hot on her heels. She bypasses Rick and Daryl and races straight to Axel, who kneels down to hug and pet his dog while she whines and licks his face with an affection that comes from a deep, unshakeable bond. Buck is just as enthusiastic in his greetings for them, although in the heeler's case he's got  _ two _ humans to fawn over and demand attention from.

"Congratulations!" Shane hollers before he and Lori are coming across the driveway to greet them. Their affection is a lot more subdued but no less heartfelt, and it warms Rick to see them both without hesitation making their movements stiff and jerky. When Shane reaches out, Rick grabs the man's forearm and lets his friend haul him to his feet. They knock their foreheads together, grinning like they used to so long ago - a whole other lifetime, when they were brothers and partners and Rick wore his faith in the form of a gun on his hip, the way a believer might carry theirs with their bible. Now his faith is the dark, curious eyes peering through the window of her trailer; the welcoming chorus of neighs and whinnies from the sprawling pastures around them as his herd gathers up against the fences to welcome them home.

"Hello," Lori says kindly to Daryl, who is still down on one knee with Buck wriggling like a puppy and licking his face. Rick sees his lover look up, something guarded in his expression until Lori smiles and holds out a delicate hand to the trainer. Rick can see the dirt caked in her knuckles and brushed across her palm. Her sleeves are rolled up to show pale, thin forearms that have mud and grass stains from horse muzzles smeared across the pale, fair hair. "I'm Lori. It's nice to finally meet you, Daryl. We've heard a lot about you."

"H'llo," Daryl shakes her hand but chooses to stand under his own power, probably realizing that he'll pull the woman right off her feet if he lets her help him up. His eyes flick to Rick quickly, the corner of his mouth hitching into a crooked, mischievous smile. "A lot, huh?"

"Oh yeah," Shane laughs. He claps Rick on the shoulder hard enough to make him squint against the dull pain, and he gives his friend a look that Shane ignores blithely. "Never heard him talk so much about another person, man. He's a fuckin'  _ poet _ when comes to you, though."

"A poet?" Daryl's eyes are twinkling, and no one pays attention to Rick's playful scowl or his huff when he shoves Shane’s hand away and rests his own on his hips. He curls his fingers into his belt loops and rolls his eyes at his friends.

"Y'all are awful," he complains - well aware that he sounds like a moody teenager and playing up the drama just to see Daryl grin and shake his head.

"Kinda like th' thought'a findin' a diary full'a poems about me tucked under yer pillow," he teases. Rick snorts at him, but he feels too lighthearted and happy to even pull off fake anger right now. It's too easy to pull Daryl against his side and kiss the wicked grin off his face - to laugh against his lover's lips when Shane wolf whistles and he's aware enough to know Daryl has just showed the man his middle finger.

"I've never seen you so happy," Lori comments lightly, and there's no accusation in her eyes when she smiles at them. Rick has never been more grateful for the woman who was once his wife; they've all healed and come a long way. He and Lori are better off as friends than lovers, and Shane will always be his brother. Rick has missed them, and he's relieved that time has helped soften Daryl as well. He'd been unsure of how the first meeting was going to go, and it's going so well that he can't keep the smile off his face for more than a few heartbeats at a time.

"Ready to meet the champion?" he chuckles. Both Shane and Lori nod vigorously, looking like kids eager to open their first present on Christmas morning. Sharing a look with Daryl, he turns toward the trailer with his lover falling into place at his side. It's been a long time since Daryl has walked a step back and to the left of him, and Rick can't say he misses those days when it's so much better to have the trainer beside him where he belongs.

"They're good people," Daryl murmurs while they're opening the door and lowering the ramp. His pale eyes find Rick, swirling and fathomless as he rests his calloused hand over the rancher's. "I'm glad ya didn' lose 'em."

"I am too," Rick agrees. He uses their moment of privacy to kiss Daryl, tasting cigarette smoke and the lingering sweetness of the peaches the trainer had eaten while they were coming down the road toward the ranch. "I'm even happier I found you," he adds quietly, intimately, and Daryl's hum is like magic. It caresses Rick's soul and shivers across his skin; settling deep into his bones and merging with his atoms so that it can never be undone. They share one more kiss before Streak gets too impatient, and then they're bringing her out into the hot Georgia sunlight. She settles in with a sigh as soon as she breathes in her home, her head lowering between them until the underside of her jaw just barely touches their shoulders. Rick watches her lick her lips slowly, and he presses a kiss to her black cheek before clucking his tongue.

"C'mon, little devil. Let's go meet some of your fans."

Shane and Lori look awed when the filly comes into view. She's larger than life, a legend in the flesh, and for the moment she's perfectly docile between her two favorite men. When they stop, she rests her muzzle on Rick's shoulder and blows a warm, ticklish breath into his ear.

"Jesus, she's fuckin' huge," Shane mutters. He comes closer slowly, already offering the back of his hand for her to smell. He might not spend nearly as much time around horses as Rick does now, but he knows enough to let her learn his scent before he ever tries to touch her. With an animal that outweighs humans by over a thousand pounds, assumptions can get you hurt - especially with a horse like Streak.

"Our own little devil," Daryl murmurs with pride. He strokes down the long, graceful line of her neck, his fingers scratching under her mane, and the filly sighs as she leans into the action.

"She's beautiful," Lori sighs, her smile gentle when she follows Shane’s lead and lets Streak smell her hand before she pets the filly's velvet-soft muzzle. "They're all incredible," she adds when she looks around and sees the other horses standing and watching in their pastures. Her dark eyes finally come back to Rick, and her expression is open and honest in a way it never used to be with him. Time apart has healed them in ways Rick never expected, and he's far from disgruntled about it. There's no pain when Shane takes his wife's hand and kisses her dirty knuckles. Rick only feels joy at how much happiness they've found in one another - and in how much he's found by Daryl's side.

His lover's knuckles brush against the backs of his, the simple gesture full of so much love that he hums and leans over to kiss the man's cheek. Daryl's the one who turns his head and makes it a proper kiss, when Streak moves just enough for them to reach each other.

"You two are fuckin' ridiculous," Shane huffs, but Rick can hear the smile in his voice, and he sees it overtaking his friend's face when he turns to look at them again. Daryl rests his temple against Rick's, his eyes closed and his breathing slow and easy. Rick can see the smile he's trying to hide, even though he doesn't have his long bangs or the shadow of his Stetson to help.

"If you don't like it, Walsh, you're free to leave," Rick retorts without any heat. Shane throws his head back and laughs, deep and rumbling. Even Lori is chuckling, and the horses add their own sounds to the symphony until it swells and breaks like waves against rocks. It fades away slowly and lingers in their hearts, tucked away in a special place they will always be able to find even when they don't remember it's there. It's as much conscience as not, a feeling they can always follow to the source and remember that sometimes, time really does heal their wounds.

Rick and Shane are proof of that, reunited as brothers and friends after almost a decade of holding onto bitterness and sorrow even if they didn't acknowledge it. He and Lori haven't been so at ease around each other in a long time, and now Rick can smile at her and laugh with her and remember the good times they shared both in and out of love.

Daryl - stunning, incredible  _ Daryl _ \- has probably healed more than all of them. He's unafraid and unrestrained, laughing with an ease Rick thought would take  _ years _ , if it ever happened at all. He jokes with their family and picks on them, moving through their human herd with as much ease and confidence as he does with the horses. He bumps shoulders with Shane and lets Lori hug him when they're getting ready to leave, and he doesn't flinch away from either of them the way he once would have.

"Oh!" Shane leans on the open door of his car, arms hooked loosely over the top edge and an easy grin on his face when he tilts his head toward them. "I'm supposed to tell y'all congratulations from Hershel. Your filly's a damn fine beast, and Lays is gonna make an  _ outstanding _ mother. His words, not mine."

It takes Rick a moment to get it, but Daryl understands almost instantly with a sharp, excited gasp. "Yer shittin' me," his lover whispers. It finally clicks in Rick's brain then, and his elation overflows like a rain-fed river swelling over its banks and spreading uncontained.

"Looks like we're gonna be uncles, darlin'," he laughs. He has to drop Streak's lead rope and kiss the trainer, his palms cradling Daryl's face and keeping him close as they share their excitement back and forth like a ping pong ball ricocheting between them.

"Grampas is more like it," Shane teases. "Better send us some pictures, or give us a call so we can come out and see the little beast when it's born."

"You'll be the first to hear about it after Hershel," Rick promises. Maggie appears at his shoulder, her eyes sparkling and her pretty face a picture of delight.

"You say that like he ain't gonna camp out here a few days before she's due, so he can be right by her side," the woman teases. "Daddy don't take chances. He don't miss a birth if he can help it."

"He'll be welcomed with open arms." Rick rests an arm around her shoulder and pulls her against his free side as the rest of their family comes from across the driveway. They've been unloading and getting everything back where it belongs, and now they're coming to share in the joyous news. Carol presses a kiss to Daryl's forehead, and then to Rick's. Abraham slaps them both on the back and Glenn is practically vibrating with excitement.

This is his family. This is the herd Rick has found throughout the years he's made his home in this piece of the Georgia wilds. They really have come from all walks of life, brought together in some cases by similar circumstances, and in all of their cases by a love for horses that made everything else seem pale in comparison. They've laughed together, cried together, and they've all grown together to become something stronger than Rick had ever imagined. As he looks over Beth's pale hair and sees Lori and Shane watching with warm, gentle smiles, he tilts his head and welcomes them to join. Out of everyone here, they're his oldest friends, and they don't hesitate to mingle with the others and say their final goodbyes before slipping away again.

Streak stands in the middle of them, silent and serene as they coo over her and multiple hands pet over her dark, beautiful sides. She's one of the most incredible horses Rick has ever come across in his life, and he'll never find another like her. No other will even come close, although they're free to take another spot in Rick's heart and make their home there - nestled between his wild, gorgeous filly and the wild, incredible man that walked into Rick's life just over a year ago and opened his eyes when he hadn't ever realized how tightly they'd been closed.

"I love you, my wild sky," he whispers, leaning into Daryl and breathing the declaration directly into his lover's ear. "So much so that I will never breathe the same without you by my side."

"Guess all it took was a Devil to show us what we were missin'," Daryl murmurs back. He presses a kiss to the corner of Rick's mouth, his pale eyes so beautiful he puts the world to shame and makes it infinitely better simultaneously. "Guess all I needed was someone ta show me that love ain't a fairytale," he adds. His nose presses against Rick's cheek, his next words barely a breath of air that still manage to ring as loud and clear as bells.

"I'll spend ev'ry day here wit' ya,  _ agigau _ , until we trade this life f'r th' next."

Streak sneezes on them, and their laughter rolls across the ranch like rich, warm tendrils of energy that immerse themselves in nature and echo back with reverberations of the wild that they've become a part of.

With the sun shining warmly down on them from above, and the ground firm and unmoving beneath their feet, Rick leans against his filly with the love of his life wrapped up in his arms. He kisses the back of Daryl's head and feels the trainer's rumbling croon vibrate through the man's back where it's pressed to Rick's chest. They submerge themselves in their love for each other and the love of their family, surrounded by their herd of horses and humans while an eagle circles overhead and screams proudly before winging away toward the horizon.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where do I even begin? Perhaps with the talented, wonderful, incredible riastarstruck, who prompted the original idea from which "Running With The Devil" grew. And then there's the beautifully talented and ever-so-patient katytheinspiredworkaholic, who put up with my freak-outs and flailing and was just generally so, so fantastic through this whole thing.
> 
> And then there's all of you, who have read this, left comments and kudos, and even MADE ART OH MY GOD. I can't even. You are all so fucking incredible and beautiful and I sincerely, genuinely thank you all for every second you've spent on this journey with me. All good things must come to an end, I suppose. And in the case of our boys and Streak, it looks like this is the end of their book. ;u;
> 
> Or maybe we'll revisit them some day, somewhere down the line. Just to see how they're doing.
> 
> Enjoy the epilogue my darlings. I hope you love reading it as much as I loved writing it.
> 
> *snuggles for every single one of you, and much love*

A body crawls into bed with them, trying to wiggle between where Rick and Daryl are pressed together; their legs tangled and his arms tight around his lover's chest to keep the trainer close. He cracks an eye open to see Emilee's somber face, catching her in the act of reaching to lift his arm up out of the way. She freezes, her green eyes widening fractionally as she stares at him. He would swear she wasn't breathing if he couldn't see the faint rise and fall of her chest.

Daryl hums low in his throat, rolling out of Rick's embrace and turning to face the rancher. Pale, bleary eyes crack open to look at him before flicking to their daughter's face. With just a slow, lazy smile and a pat to the newly-freed part of his pillow, he wordlessly encourages her to join them.

The little girl doesn't waste a moment, scrambling to snuggle under the covers between them and peeking at Rick from beneath the wild curtain of her sleep-mussed curls. He smiles and leans in to kiss her warm forehead; tickles his fingers gently up her side just to feel her squirm and hear her soft, sweet giggle.

Emilee is their pride and joy, and a decision neither of them made lightly. They'd discussed the possibility of a surrogate, but Daryl had mentioned - shyly and with a lot of gentle coaxing - that there were already so many children being lost in the foster system, and that maybe they could give one of those kids a chance they might never get otherwise. The first time they met Emilee, who was three at the time and willfully mute, they knew she was meant to be theirs. She's five years old now, and so traumatized by the life she lived before coming home with them that it kills him whenever he sees her flinch or curl into herself anxiously in certain situations. Rick doesn't like to think about what horrors she must have faced at the hands of her parents to make her so fearful. It's enough to make his vision red and send rage roaring through him. He becomes as vicious as any wild creature protecting his offspring, even if she's not biologically his. She may not share his DNA, or Daryl's, but she's  _ theirs _ in every way that really matters.

_ Good morning, daddy, _ she signs at him with a sleepy smile. She looks ready to go back to sleep, and he's not once been able to deny her anything since the day she stepped foot on the ranch. He kisses her head again and smoothes back her unmanageable curls, letting that be his answer before he slides out of bed. Daryl curls around her immediately, crooning quietly and nuzzling an uncoordinated kiss against her temple that makes her giggle.

"Breakfast soon, you two," Rick murmurs. He digs through the drawers for a shirt and pulls his jeans on over his boxers without bothering to change them. He'll make himself properly ready for the day after he gets food in his stomach, and after Emilee has eaten.

Daryl mumbles something, looking more asleep than awake already, and Emilee nods to show she understands before Rick leaves to start cooking. He takes a moment to look at them - the two loves of his life curled beneath the blanket Daryl's mother made, wrapped safely in a design with so much love woven into the fabric that it's like she's still with them now. If she was, he knows she would spoil Emilee rotten, and neither of them would do a thing to stop it.

Sleepy green eyes peek at him from over the edge of the blanket, and Rick winks playfully at his daughter before he finally heads for the stairs. The sun is already up, warm light spilling in through the front windows; it must be at least eight already. No one bothered to wake them up, something they've been doing a lot more lately, and he shakes his head with a fond huff. When he opens the fridge door and sees that Beth has already left a pot of sausage gravy for him to heat up, he laughs and goes about getting it ready. There are biscuits too, so he sticks them in the microwave to warm them up and leans against the counter to wait. His eyes wander to the window, and he sees Badger and Business grazing side by side in their pasture. A little farther away, her head up and turned toward the house like she  _ knows _ Rick is there, is Lays' filly.

At two years old, Cherokee Rose is built like her mother. She's tall and long-bodied, with a dainty face and one pretty blue eye. The filly is a paint just like her wild stallion father, although the color of her markings is closer to light bay. She's absolutely gorgeous, and as sweet as her dam, although Rick has seen her spunky nature on occasion. Emilee adores the filly, and Cherry - as his daughter has nicknamed her - is just as in love with the little girl.

Rick is distracted from his thoughts when strong, bare arms wrap around his waist. He leans back against Daryl with a quiet hum, feeling his lover's beard scrape across his nape when Daryl kisses behind his ear with an answering rumble.

"Thought you weren't gonna wake up 'til noon," Rick teases. He pats the man's hands, resting his over them for a moment before the microwave beeps and he goes to pull out the biscuits and turn off the stove.

"Woke up soon as yer ass left th' bed," Daryl snorts. He keeps his voice low, both of them fully aware that Emilee is sitting at the table waiting patiently for her morning cup of juice. While Rick is plating their breakfast, Daryl gets the cups and silverware.

"Orange or cranberry today, bug?" he asks. Emilee ponders her choices like she's being graded on her decision, and Rick hides his smile behind his cup of coffee while they wait.

_ Cranberry _ , she decides, so Daryl pours them all a glass. They always share the juice with her, and even if cranberry isn't exactly Rick's favorite, he drinks it with a smile just because of how happy it makes his baby girl as she drinks her juice and pokes at her breakfast with a fork. She eats like a bird, nibbling and picking at her plate but ultimately eating it all every single time.

"Ready to make the rounds?" Daryl asks as soon as the dishes are rinsed and in the dishwasher. Emilee nods and grabs their hands. Her own are so much smaller and delicate; Rick curls his fingers carefully around her fist and lets her swing her arms - and theirs - as they make their way through the mud room and out into the warm summer morning.

As soon as the screen door bangs shut, Buck and Belle come bounding from the direction of the barn. The dogs skid to a halt and lick Emilee's face enthusiastically, their tails wagging as hard as if it's the first time they're meeting all over again. The very first time they laid eyes on the girl, Rick watched her come out of her shell like a tiny spring rose blooming in the light. It reminded him so much of Daryl's first reaction to Buck, and even now he feels his throat get tight as his emotions swell and his eyes burn.

A scream echoes across the driveway, and Rick huffs out a laugh when he looks toward the Hill paddock and sees a small, dark bay body waiting impatiently at the gate. As soon as the colt sees them looking, he rears and paws at the air with another shrill whinny.

He may only be six months old, but Running With The Devil is already shaping up to be just like his dam and grand-sire in almost every way. The only difference between them is color, but just like them, there isn't a speck of white on his dark bay hide. Even his socks are pure black. He's got attitude in spades, same as his dam, and there's not a day that goes by that Rick doesn't wish that just a  _ sliver _ of Run On Home's temperament had made it into his colt rather than just his coloring.

"I hear ya, Mer!" Daryl hollers. Emilee giggles, letting go of them and clapping her hands together excitedly before she takes off across the driveway to run and greet the colt - whose hooked his front legs over the top rung of his fence to watch them with his ears pinned halfway back. They come forward the second he sees Emilee, her dark curls flying out behind her from how fast she's moving. Rick and Daryl hurry after her, laughing because of how excited she gets every time she sees her second favorite horse on the ranch - although he and Cherry are probably pretty evenly tied for her affections.

Mer's hooves hit the ground before Emilee gets too close, and he's already arching his head over the fence to nose at her hair with a quiet nicker when Daryl and Rick reach them. Buck and Belle lay down in the grass, panting happily and watching as Emilee runs careful palms up the colt's soft nose and he lips at her fingers with infinite care.

Daryl had once told Rick, late at night and with tears running down his face, that Merle had adored children more than he would ever admit. He'd treated them like royalty, Rick's lover had whispered, and he'd almost always give them coins or trinkets he kept stashed away in his pockets. He was a hard, gruff man, but nothing made him melt like a child giggling or a kid crying over a scraped knee.

It took three different situations for the trainer to realize just who Streak's colt was - what he'd meant to the trainer in another life, ended by his own nature and the brutal hooves of a horse.  _ It's like his second chance _ , he'd breathed against Rick's chest, his tears soaking into the rancher's shirt as he'd shaken and cried from relief and sorrow.  _ It's his chance to make it right. _

Rick never met Merle when he was alive as a man, but Daryl is so sure that Streak's colt is his brother’s soul come back to him, and there has been more than enough incidents since their realization to support the claim. When Mer met Emilee for the first time, Rick had been cautious, but the colt had nuzzled right into her soft hair and she'd _smiled_. She hadn't once smiled before then, and it had been so beautiful to see that Rick hadn't even bothered to hide his tears.

Emilee coos at the colt, and Mer whuffles against her soft cheek before Sky distracts him and he runs to whinny at the gelding. They race back and forth up and down the fenceline, their tails flagging and their hooves barely seeming to touch the ground.

Running With The Devil is still so young, but he's got two incredible bloodlines running through his veins. He shows promise already, and Rick can't wait to see what he can do once he's got some training and a taste for the track.

Streak whinnies from her pasture, and Emilee runs to see her while her fathers walk slowly behind her. They let the dogs run with her, flanking her on either side and keeping her safe even if she's never had to worry about danger a single day since they brought her home.

"Gonna start teachin' her ta ride, soon," Daryl murmurs suddenly. Rick smiles warmly and kisses his lover, keeping Daryl close with an arm around his waist.

"Who you gonna teach her on?" he asks curiously. Most of the horses they have are viable options, but it depends entirely on who Emilee herself is the most comfortable around. For that reason, he realizes the answer a second before he sees Daryl's lips part.

"Cherry."

Rick nods, not at all surprised by Daryl's choice. If there was any horse on the ranch who was absolutely perfect to teach their daughter another kind of love for the horses that are their lives, it's Cherokee Rose. She's got a beautiful gait and a bottomless well of patience. She's the perfect horse to learn on, and Rick might use her primarily for that. They've begun to open the ranch to the public on weekends, allowing people to come and meet the horses and get a good look at Devil's Pride - who retired by her own choice and has been perfectly happy to be on the ranch or out on trails. She still loves to run, but it was almost like she saw no need to keep proving herself after the Triple Crown Races.

They'd put her in a few races after the buzz had died down - and she'd scratched herself from every single one of them. Either she refused to go in the gate, or she refused to  _ leave _ it, and after the third time, Rick and Daryl had laughed and apologized to the unmoving filly. They'd taken her home and let her live out in her pasture with Lays. She wanted for nothing, and when Mer was born she raised her colt with a tenderness they'd never seen from her before.

Emilee makes her rounds faithfully to greet every single horse, and they treat her like she's something precious and breakable. Sky and Shadow nuzzle either side of her face, the geldings nickering quietly to her while she pets their noses in tandem. Rick had gelded them after their racing careers, which had been short but satisfactory. They'd enjoyed the track, but they clearly preferred the ranch, and he wasn't about to force any of his herd to do something they weren't going to be happy about. Home life seems to suit them just fine, and he hasn't once regretted his decision.

When their daughter returns to them, there are streaks of mud across her forehead and hands, and she looks so happy that her brightness rivals the sun. Rick picks her up and rests her on his hip, tweaking her nose gently and kissing her brunette curls while she giggles and makes herself comfortable.

"You think you wanna learn to ride, baby girl?" he asks as they start walking toward the barn. She bounces on his hip, nodding emphatically, and Rick can't believe how much more he loves her every day. She's his perfect little petal - Daryl's sweet little bug. She's  _ theirs _ , and they're  _ hers _ , and she completes their family in ways that Rick could have never begun to anticipate until the first time he held her in his arms and she'd curled up against his chest, her head tucked under his chin and her faint scent reminding him of wildflowers.

Daryl rubs away a smear of dirt with his thumb, holding it up to show her and smiling mischievously. "Gonna hafta hose ya off 'fore ya step them dirty li'l feet int'a my kitchen, bug," he teases. She squeaks and shakes her head, clinging to Rick like Daryl has threatened to dump paint all over her instead of spray her down with water.

"I'll protect you, sweetheart, don't you worry," he whispers in her ear. "I won't let the mean old man get you."

"Watch who yer callin'  _ old _ , cowboy," Daryl threatens. He can't keep the grin off his face, his pale eyes twinkling and his nostrils flaring when he huffs at them. "Better look in a mirror next time ya wanna go callin' someone  _ old _ ."

"No need," Rick says, sticking his nose in the air like a prude and sniffing. "I'm not old, darlin'. I'm  _ distinguished _ ."

"I'll show ya distinguished," Daryl retorts. He holds up his hands, fingers curled into claws, and Emilee shrieks delightedly as Rick swings her around to cradle her against his chest and starts running. "Hold on, little petal," he puffs at her, and she obeys with a laugh that's as sweet as honeysuckle and buttercups as Daryl chases after them with a warbling cry.

They run all over the ranch, laughing and loving and living their lives completely with each other while the rest of their family appears one by one to join in on the fun. Their joy reaches every corner of the property Rick had seen so much potential in when he'd first laid eyes on it, echoing clearly and creating its own kind of energy that hums like the sweetest song. The horses whinny excitedly, and Running With The Devil - the son of a legacy and the brother of his lover, given a second chance and a better life in a way they'd never expected - is the loudest of them all. His hooves kick up clods of dirt as he races through his pasture and frolics with an innocence as beautiful as Emilee's first smile.

Six years ago, Rick would never have imagined that this would be his life. He never expected Daryl to show up and make a home for himself in Rick's soul. He never expected a beautiful daughter that he'd get to hold in his arms and run with while she laughed so hard she cried. He never expected  _ any _ of this - and he wouldn't trade a second of it for anything else in the world.

Rick wasn't born a great man, but he sure as hell feels like one of the greatest men alive right now, and he has his horses and fate to thank for it. Especially one ill-tempered filly with the blood of a Devil running through her veins, and the drive to do what no filly had ever done before.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Running With The Devil - Edit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11176731) by [PixieReedus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixieReedus/pseuds/PixieReedus), [Rickyl_edits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rickyl_edits/pseuds/Rickyl_edits), [YeyaGrimes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YeyaGrimes/pseuds/YeyaGrimes)




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